Ultimate Sacrifice
by dferveiro
Summary: Complete! Sequel to Choice: Sark reemerges to save the ones he loves but in so doing, he may lose himself.
1. Default Chapter

Ultimate Sacrifice

Chapter 1

Several months after **_Choice_**:

Dec. 23rd

            Snow was somewhat of a novelty to Julian. Granted, he'd been in it before, but he had always been focusing on something else: surviving sub-zero temperatures, obtaining an artifact, avoiding bullets.

            But the morning snow now fell daintily, and Julian just watched it from the kitchen window.

            "What time is your flight?" his mother asked. She took out the last batch of muffins, and placed one in front of her son. Julian smiled and started to butter the muffin.

            "Twelve o'clock. I'm supposed to meet Ilene at her apartment," he answered, taking a bite of the muffin. 

            "What time are you coming back?" his brother Calvin asked. Julian chewed and swallowed, hiding a grimace at a disturbing chunk in the muffin.

            "We'll be back tomorrow around 3 p.m.," he said. "Ilene is showing me around Oxford's campus."  He courageously took another bite.

            "Just be back before 6 o'clock," his mom said. "We're having the Fitzgeralds over for Christmas Eve dinner." Julian almost groaned at that, but nodded.

            His father made his entrance, hustling through the kitchen and grabbing his own muffin. Julian smiled at that. No matter how early his father got up, he was always rushing to make it on time to work.

            His father chewed quickly, and downed some orange juice. Julian saw his mother start to clean up the kitchen.

            "Mom, let me and Calvin do that," he said. Calvin automatically shot him a "gee, thanks" look. Julian smirked at that, and took over the dishes. 

            The phone rang, and Calvin gleefully went for it, leaving Julian as long as possible with the cleanup.

            "Hello?" Calvin listened for a moment; his face darkened with confusion.

            "Sark?" he said into the phone. Julian snapped his head up as the alarm bells rang in his head. "Are you sure you have the right number?"

             "Who is it, Calvin?" Julian asked. His brother just shrugged, and Julian crossed the kitchen to him. He took the phone.

            "Who is this?" he demanded.

            "Mr. Sark," a voice replied. "If you want to see Ilene again, be at the Tower of London at midnight." The caller hung up, but Julian just hung on to the phone, his blue eyes freezing over.

            "Julian?" That was his mother. "Is everything okay?"

            "Julian?" Calvin tried to snap him out of his cold gaze. "Who is Sark?"

            Suddenly, Julian slammed the phone down and paced around the kitchen windows. He peered out, looking for anyone watching the house.

            "What's wrong?" his father demanded. "What did the caller say?"

            Julian didn't answer, but struggled to keep back the man he used to be. 

            "They said to put Sark on the phone," Calvin said. Julian sighed, and quickly grabbed the phone again, dialing his sister's number.

            The phone just rang and rang, confirming the worst. He hung up and ran a hand through his blonde hair.

            "Someone has Ilene," Julian said, almost muttering at the floor. His parents gasped.

            "What do you mean?" his mother asked. Julian didn't miss the terror in her voice. He sighed; it was inevitable what he had to do.

            "Sark, the person they asked for—that was my name while I was gone," he said. His heart sped up, and the weight of the confession he was about to make nearly crushed him. "I've dodged your questions these past months because I was partially afraid of something like this happening if you knew."

            "Knew what?" his father asked, stepping toward his son. Julian glanced at the floor, trying to think of the least painful and telling explanation.

            "I was . . . I did some things, illegal things," he said. "It seems someone is trying to use Ilene as leverage against me now."

            The silence was deafening, as were the expressions on his family's faces. 

            "Julian," his father started, "I figured you were mixed up in some sort of trouble, but why would someone use Ilene like this? What could you possible have done that allows someone to use Ilene?"

            Julian turned away, staring out the window. Kids were playing in the snow, making snowmen and jumping around to catch flakes in their mouths. _Such innocence._

            He continued to look out the window as he answered.

            "They want something from me," he whispered, conveniently leaving the second question unanswered for the moment. He heard his father stomp across the room to the phone. 

            "I'm calling the police," he stated. "They can contact Scotland Yard and find your sister."

            Julian spun around and laid a hand over the phone. "No." The simple phrase stopped his father, but alarmed him too; the coldness in Julian's eyes was a first for him to see.

            "They will kill her if I don't do as they say." He paused. "I have done what they're doing; trust me—they'll kill her." Julian let his eyes study the floor; he was unwilling to see the shock firsthand. "I was an assassin and terrorist, among other things. When I left that life, I faked my death; the world's authorities think Sark is dead. Obviously, whoever has Ilene knows that's not true. But I cannot be compromised by any government knowing I'm alive."

            He looked up for some sort of agreement from them in not contacting the police, but instead saw the sudden fear in their eyes. He knew this truth was worse for them than his death. For a brief moment, he wished he really had died.

            Julian pushed away his emotions.

            "Pack a bag," he said. "I need you all to go some place safe. I'll come get you when I have Ilene back."

            "What?!"          

            Julian just held up a hand to silence them. "Please. Trust me. If they can get to Ilene, they can get to you."

            He sent his family on a private plane to Switzerland. A cottage was already reserved for them, and Sark knew they'd be safer away from Ireland and from him. 

            He was in London by early afternoon. The first stop he made was a storage unit he still had. Sark grabbed a knife, four magazines of ammunition and a 9mm. He also grabbed an untraceable cell phone that he hadn't ever used yet.

            It wasn't even close to midnight, and he was going stir-crazy. Sark went to Ilene's apartment.

            Her apartment door was closed but unlocked. Sark walked in cautiously.          

            The lights were out. Everything seemed intact, until he reached her bedroom. Books and items from her desk were on the floor; it looked like someone swept everything off onto the floor. Papers were crumbled and torn. 

            Sark froze, his eyes stopping on a spot by the desk. He bent down to it, touching it with his fingertips.

            _Blood_. 

            Rage froze his own blood. Sark glanced around the room once more and left the apartment.

            He was outside the Tower of London at 11:55. It was incredibly quiet, maybe because of the approaching holiday. It only made Sark tense.

            A figure approached. As much as he wanted to shoot the person in the knee, Sark kept his hands in sight of anyone watching. He knew more were out there.

            That was confirmed when he heard the click of a gun behind him. The first figure stopped in front of Sark.

            He didn't recognize him. 

            "Mr. Sark," the man said. "Please come with us." The man turned and led the way. The second man stayed behind Sark, no doubt with his finger on a trigger. 

            The three zigzagged down to the riverfront. A small yacht waited for them.

            Sark stepped aboard, and his escorts led him below deck. The dim light revealed more shadows than anything else, but Sark saw six men waiting for him.

            They were dressed more appropriately for a nice dinner than a clandestine meeting. Sark might have felt underdressed in jeans, a sweater and a jacket if it weren't for the fact that he could only imagine slitting each man's throat.

            "We're glad you made it," one man said. He had gray hair, and was easily 60 years old. The wrinkles told of years of stress. The man's voice was raspy, no doubt from years of ordering people around. The accent was West European, but Sark couldn't place where.

            "Where is Ilene?" Sark asked without any visible emotion. His mask was in place, complete with his chin pointed proudly in the air.

            "She's being held elsewhere, and she's alive," the old man replied. "She'll remain alive as long as you cooperate."

            Sark huffed. "'Alive' is not good enough.  She must be in excellent condition, or there is no way any of you will survive any collaboration."

            His unknown enemies chuckled at that. 

            "Yes, we know you disposed of the Hierarchy because of their failure to respect you," the old man said with a laugh.

            "And yet you're still foolish enough to try this," Sark quickly replied. "That diminishes my confidence in your intelligence."

            The man's laugh faded into a cool trace of a grin. "You're not in a position to be so bold, Mr. Sark. You may think that you can overtake us here, with that gun in your coat, but you'd be severely mistaken."

            Sark smirked at that. "Thank you for stating the obvious. Let's move on to the point."

            The old man smiled. "You're every bit as collected as we expected." Sark instantly wondered who 'we' consisted of. "There is something that we need you to do for us."

            The man tossed a manila envelope to Sark. He caught it, but didn't open it. The old man continued.

            "We need plans to a particular vault. These plans are kept in a government facility in Los Angeles. The details are in that envelope."

            Sark almost rolled his eyes at the simplicity of the objective, but his mind was running wild with questions. He allowed himself to voice one aloud.

            "I'm assuming you'll want to use the plans to break into this vault. Are you so incapable that you can't handle a simple theft?"

            The old man smiled. "This is more than a simple theft, Mr. Sark. When you obtain the plans, you'll see."

            "So you want me to retrieve something from the vault and deliver it to you," Sark filled in.

            "That is correct. See? You _are_ the best in the intelligence world," the old man said with another damn smile.

            Sark restrained the desire to shoot the man. "Pardon me if I'm not thrilled with the compliment, but you've pulled me out of self-imposed retirement and you've kidnaped my sister."

            The man nodded and laughed again. "We're confident you'll succeed. Have the plans in three days. We'll meet again to review them."

            Sark sighed. "You force my involvement because 'I'm the best,' and then want to look over my shoulder?"

            The men in the room laughed. 

            "Mr. Sark, we know we can only trust you so much. I want to make sure this collaboration is successful, and that you don't let your new-found emotions get in the way," the old man said. Sark glared at him. "Work with us, and quickly. The sooner you complete our wishes, the sooner you can return your sister to her family."

            There had to be more to this mission, but Sark wasn't going to press the matter, not when he had three days to find the vault plans.

            "I'd like evidence that my sister is all right," Sark stated. The old man, as if expecting that, tossed Sark a cell phone.

            "Press redial, and you can talk to her. Use this to contact us when you're ready too," the old man said. "But don't bother tracing the call. We've taken more precautions than you can imagine."

            Sark glared at the man, and was about to flip open the cell phone when he felt a prick in the back of his neck. His eyelids drooped almost instantly, and Sark fell to the yacht floor, unconscious.


	2. Dec 24th

December 24

            The first thing he saw was the cell phone. It was directly in front of his eyes, resting on the floor by his head. Sark groaned as he sat up.

            He was in a motel room, and not the cleanest, judging by what else he saw on the floor. 

            The envelope was next to the phone. Sark picked both up, and quickly pressed redial.

            It rang once, and then a male voice answered.

            "What?"

            "I want to speak with Ilene," Sark said firmly. He heard the line hiccup and connect elsewhere.

            Static and muffled sounds were in the background, but finally he heard a very frightened and timid hello.

            "Ilene?!" He immediately heard her cry. 

            "Julian? Is that you?" He could hear how terrified she was, and it made his heart twist in his chest.

            "Ilene, are you hurt?"

            "I'm okay," she said with a shaky voice. 

            "I'm going to get you back, I promise," he said. Sark hesitated; he wondered who else was listening. "Do you know where you are?"

            He heard her say something, but suddenly a loud and high beep filled his ear. 

            "Mr. Sark," came the muffled voice of one of Ilene's captors. "Don't waste your time. You have three days, and if you don't make it, the deal is off. And you know what will happen to your sister then."

            The call ended, and Sark threw the phone on the bed. He screamed and threw a luggage rack across the small room.

            His anger threatened to continue, but Sark willed himself to calm down. He looked at his watch; it was 2 a.m. 

            He made another call.

            "Yes." Her voice was something Sark would never forget. The no-nonsense tone to it always made him smirk. 

            "I have a problem I could use your help on," Sark said. His voice seemed to echo in the silence on her end.

            "Nice to see you're alive, Sark. Where are you?" Irina asked.

            "London."

            "Meet me at the safe house there."

            The safe house was nothing more than a flat in downtown London. Sark entered the flat, expecting to be early. But Irina's voice startled him.

            "You look well," she said. Sark turned to the source, and saw her looking as assertive and powerful as ever.

            "As do you," he answered. Irina walked to him, and circled him like he was a model on display.

            "What's happened? It must be drastic to risk exposing your continued existence to me and the rest of the world," she said.

            Sark smirked at her comment. "You already knew I was alive. And it is drastic." She smiled when he caught her lie, and then nodded for him to go on. "Someone has kidnapped my sister. They're demanding my services in exchange for her life."

            Irina's eyes steeled immediately. "Who is it?"

            Sark shook his head. "I've never seen them before. I only know what they want me to do." Irina shot him a questioning look. "They want me to steal plans to a vault, and then break into the vault."

            She raised her eyebrows. "That's it?" she asked. Sark nodded. 

            "I have three days to get the plans, and I don't know how many after that for the vault."

            Irina started to pace around the flat. "Why would they want you for such a simple job?"

            Sark sighed. "I don't know. They say it's very complex, but who knows."

            "What do you need?" Irina asked.

            "Anything you can gather on this group. After I get the plans, I'm meeting with them before I move to the next phase," Sark said. "I could use some backup at that point."

            Irina chuckled at that. "Back up? You plan on taking them out after you get the plans?"

            Sark nodded, and Irina smiled with pride.

            "All right. I'll help you. Contact me with the location of your next meeting with them," she said. "I'll let you know if I find anything before then."

            Irina stopped pacing, and let her eyes bore directly into him.

            "You know this wouldn't have happened if you hadn't left."

            Sark knew she was referring to leaving her employ, but Sark could only think of the first time he left his life behind.

            He turned for the door.

            "I know."

            The envelope's intel said the plans to this mysterious vault were in Los Angeles. Sark was somewhat annoyed and thrilled at that. With the CIA and who knows what other groups around, Sark was in danger of being exposed. However, he could see Sydney, and get her help on this operation. 

            _Sydney. She was perfect; she already knew he was alive, and she could back him up. _

            He hadn't seen her since she visited him right after his "death." That time was . . _precious. His family warmed up to her immediately. And she and Sark were able to become closer. The deception and lies subsided, and Sark believed she saw him for who he really was for the first time._

            And he realized that Sydney was exactly who he always wanted in his life. 

            But they parted. She went back to L.A., and Sark stayed in Galway. They both knew she couldn't leave her life behind. And Sark couldn't change the minds of every government like he'd changed Sydney's mind.

            He hadn't even contacted her at all since then.

            Her roommate Francie opened the door. 

            "Hi, is Sydney here?" Sark asked politely. Francie smiled at him, and Sark caught a familiar glint of awe in her eyes. _She finds me attractive_. 

            _Some things never change._

            "Yeah, come on in," Francie invited. Sark nodded.

            "Syd! Someone to see you." She turned to Sark. "Can I get you something to drink?"

            "No thank you," he said. His eyes fixated on the hallway that led to the bedrooms. His breathing picked up as Sydney came into view.

            She was amazing, as always. It looked like she just got home from work, which surprised him given the early evening hour. Her shirt was untucked from the suit pants and her hair freshly liberated from the strict-looking bun. But she stopped in her tracks when she saw him.

            "Hello, Sydney."

            She slowly started towards him, but in as round-about a manner as possible. Sark cleared his throat at her hesitation.

            "I didn't expect to see you here," she said. Francie picked up on the awkwardness.

            "I'll let you two talk," she said, hurrying out of the room. Sark saw her mouth the word 'details' to Sydney. _Not very discreet._

            "Sark, you shouldn't be here," Sydney said immediately. "There are too many people who could recognize you."

            Sark didn't react, but just stared at her.

            "I need your help," he said. That got her attention immediately; Sark hardly accepted any help, much less asked for it.

            "What is it?" Sydney asked, suddenly more grave in her tone. Sark took a deep breath.

            "Someone has kidnapped my sister." Hearing that even through his own ears was hurtful. He just recovered his family; he wasn't about to lose his only sister because of his past. "I have to get something in exchange for her life."

            Sydney's eyes were filled with that familiar sorrow and pity that Sark used to despise. He didn't care for it much now either, but knew he had her support.

            "What do they want?" Her voice trembled, which almost sent Sark's wall of an emotional exterior into pieces.

            "Plans to a vault, at this point," Sark said. "The plans are in the city." He pulled out the envelope but hesitated, waiting for a decision from her. "I don't want to involve you if you don't want to do it."

            Sydney tucked her hair behind an ear and crossed her arms in front of her. "Let's see what you have."

            Sark flashed her a grateful smile. "Thank you."

            He pulled out the contents of the envelope. The first thing that came out was a photo of the building where the plans were kept. It was a federal building, which he expected, but not _this _type of federal building.

            Sydney stared at the photo.

            "A post office?"

            Sark read over an accompanying memo. The post office was a multi-story building, and had other federal offices in it on the upper levels. The plans were kept on the sixth floor. 

            Sydney looked over a rough blueprint of the building.

            "It doesn't look particularly tough to infiltrate," Sydney began.

            Sark nodded. He brushed his fingers over his lips, a nervous and subconscious twitch he had lately. "Then again, it is a post office."

            "What type of plans do they want? If it's in a federal building . . ." She trailed off, and Sark knew the moral conflict was arising.

            He sighed loudly and started to pace. "We promised we wouldn't lie to each other anymore," he began. "It's to some sort of vault, probably government. I don't know what it contains that has these people so interested in it. Your mother is working on finding out more."

            Sydney's eyes flashed at the mention of her mother. "So she knows you're alive?"

            Sark shot Sydney a look. "You figured it out; you don't think your mother would too?"

            She nodded at that, and a small smile crept onto her lips. It looked very inviting, but Sark ordered himself to focus on the task at hand.

            "These blueprints show some security points in the post office," Sydney said. Every time she said 'post office,' Sark had to order himself not to laugh. "But I don't think they're guards."

            Sark squinted at the marks she pointed to on the blueprints. They looked as large as the marks for outlets. "I bet it's just electronic systems. Key cards, codes or thumb prints." He ruffled through the various pages of the envelope. "Yes, key card system, according to the intel."

            "We'll need something to bypass that," Sydney said. Sark smiled. The moral dilemma seemed to have subsided. He was actually relieved that they wouldn't have to squabble over—

            "Sark, you have to promise me something," she said. "Whatever is in the vault, if it's potentially harmful, you cannot hand it over to your sister's kidnappers."

            _Crap. So much for no moral dilemma._

            Sark sighed. "I'm hoping we never have to get to the vault. Your mom will back me up when I meet with them, after we get the plans."

            Sydney's head tilted up as she realized his plan. "You're going to get Ilene out by force."

            "I plan to do it with some finesse too, but yes, that's the basic gist of it," Sark said. "Want to help?" He flashed her a grin, to which Sydney responded with her own smile.

            They stared at each other, smiling, until Sydney spoke.

            "I missed you," she whispered. Her eyes gushed the emotions she had kept back while he was gone. Sark stared into her brown eyes, so soft and vibrant with the passion she always had.

            Sark closed the distance between them. "I'm sorry I stayed away." His whispers danced over her lips right before he kissed her.

            A sudden moment of irresistibility ignited between them, and they encircled each other in a tight embrace as the kiss deepened.

            Sark's intensity almost bruised her lips, but so much was weighing on him. The kidnappers, this mission, Ilene, his family . . . Sark willed it all away to enjoy this moment.

            Sydney finally pulled back, and Sark didn't understand why until he glanced up and saw Francie staring at them both, with one eyebrow raised in a teasing look.

            "Um, I should go," Sark said, clearing his throat. "I have to get some things ready, and then I'll call you."

            Sydney nodded, but didn't look at him or Francie. 

            "See you later."

            Sark checked his watch. It was 5 p.m. He had little more than a day to get this mission done, and be back in time to plot his sister's rescue and her kidnappers' takedown. Of course, he still didn't know where that was; he was supposed to call for the location after he had the plans.

            He stopped the car outside the post office. It was relatively new, especially for a government building. 

            But no one was in the building. In fact, the parking lot was empty. Sark's forehead crinkled together. _The streets are sufficiently busy—why not the post office?_

            He smacked his hand against his forehead. _Christmas Eve._ He'd forgotten about the holiday. This was going to be his first Christmas back with his family. Sark was even looking forward to it.

            But the holiday season slipped to the back of his mind when Ilene was kidnapped. _I hope she's all right. Sark knew that if the kidnappers were anything like he used to be, her safety wasn't guaranteed._

            Sark looked back at the post office. With the building already shut down, he couldn't go in undercover or anything else. It was too risky to break in at this point, and there wasn't time to wait for a business day. Sark started the car, and drove on.

            He stopped by an old contact's place. The contact operated a Radio Shack, of all things, but it proved useful in getting various devices for missions. The shop was open, and Sark strolled in.

            A salesman approached him. 

            "Can I help you find anything?" he asked politely. Sark smiled and just continued past him.

            "No, Troy left something for me in the back storage room," he said confidently. "I'll just get it and let you attend the last-minute Christmas rush."

            The salesman started to object, but Sark never gave him the chance. He was in the backroom, and evidently convinced the man enough with his lie that Sark could quickly search the room alone.

            He found what he wanted hidden behind a box of TV cables. The security key card descrambler was a little old—last year's model—but it would do. Sark put the small box inside his coat, and left the room.

            "Did you find it?" the salesman asked, trying to get his word in. Sark nodded.

            "Yes, thank you for your help."

            He was back at Sydney's by 8:30 p.m. She answered the door.

            "Good, you're back. The pizza just got here," she said, holding the door open for him. Sark shot her a bewildered look.

            "Pizza?"

            She smiled at that. "I have a great bottle of wine to go with it, if it makes you feel better. I got all the toppings, so pick off what you don't like."

            He walked hesitantly to the kitchen, and the disturbingly appealing aroma wafted to him. The pizza was huge, and Sydney wasn't kidding; everything he could ever imagine was on the pizza. 

            He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. She was actually eating a piece, with every topping. Amazingly, she didn't spill any anchovies or olives that topped the pile.

            "Does that actually taste _good_?" Sark asked. His perplexed expression almost made her laugh and lose control of the toppings. She just nodded as she continued to chew.

            _Pizza. He swallowed his pride and cautiously picked up a slice of the commoner's food. _

            There were some things in normalcy that he would never warm up to.

            The first bite was more chunky than anything else. Sark fought the inner battle and swallowed. When he looked up, he saw Sydney watching him. She looked incredibly entertained.

            "What?" he asked. She shook her head, holding back a laugh.

            "You've never had pizza?" 

            Sark shot her a look. "I know what it is, but by choice, I've abstained." 

            His formality sent her over the edge, and she just broke down into giggles. She held her slice in one hand, with her other hand covering her stomach as she laughed. Sark's eyes focused on her piece, waving in the air and sending toppings onto the floor.

            One, a bell pepper, landed by his shoe. Sark stepped back, disgusted.

            Sydney just laughed harder, and soon her whole slice was upside down on her hardwood floor.

            He called it quits after one piece, and filled his stomach with the wine. Sark sipped at it as he looked over the intel. He compared the security info with the descrambler he stole earlier.

            "I think this will work," he said. "It may not be the fastest thing, but I don't think we'll be too rushed anyway."

            Sydney looked up from her pile of papers. "Okay." She looked back down, memorizing what she could.

            Sark watched her. The way she could just absorb information was, for some odd reason, fiercely attractive.  

            He cleared his throat. "So where is Francie?"

            Sydney looked up again. "She's with her family tonight. So is Will." Sark ran a hand through his hair.

            "I'm sorry to ruin your Christmas, Sydney," he said. She smiled softly.

            "This gives me something to do. My dad and I exchanged presents at work," she said. "Besides, Ilene needs our help."

            He looked down and nodded at the floor. Sydney and Ilene had hit it off when Sydney came to visit him. They were like sisters that the other never had. Sark smiled at that thought.

            "How is your family taking this?" Sydney asked. He didn't answer. "That good, huh?"

            He sighed.

            "I had to give them the short version about me," Sark said. "And then I sent them away, before they could really react."

            Sydney paused, just thinking that through. "Have you talked to them since?"

            Sark shook his head. "It was just yesterday."

            Sydney shot him a look that scolded him. "It's Christmas Eve, and your sister has been kidnapped. Sark, call them," she ordered. "They need to hear from you."

            Sark sighed and pulled out his cell phone. He gave Sydney a rebellious look as he dialed the number for the cabin in Switzerland.

            "Hello?" It was his father who answered. Sark immediately stood up.

            "It's Julian," he said. He started to pace throughout the room. 

            "Julian! Is Ilene all right? Where are you? Who has—"

            "Calm down, Dad," he interrupted. "Ilene is alive, and I'm working on getting her back."

            "Working on it?!" Sark heard other voices in the background. It sounded like his mom and Calving were fighting his dad for the phone.

            "Julian," his mom said, "What's going on?"

            Sark clamped down on his tongue to stay calm.

            "Listen," he began. "Someone wants me to work for them. If I do what they want, I'll see Ilene tomorrow."

            "They want you to work for them?" It was his dad's voice again. "Doing what? Terrorizing? Murdering?!"

            Sark shut his eyes. 

            "If you must know, I'm stealing for them," Sark said. His voice came out tired. He sighed.

            "Stealing," his father repeated. "Julian, what have you done to get into this life?"

            _What indeed, he thought to himself. "I did everything I could to get into this life. And I've done everything I could to leave it," Sark said. "I can't help that someone is forcing me back. But I will resolve this, Dad."_

            His father was silent except for a sigh of his own. Then his mother spoke on the phone. 

            "How can you resolve this alone, Julian?" she said. "Get the authorities involved."

            "I'm not working alone to get Ilene back. And if the world finds out I'm still alive, the CIA, MI-6 and every other intelligence agency will put me on their most wanted list. Again."

            More silence followed, until Sark heard his father in the background.

            "Things were simpler when we thought he died."

            The emotional bullet hit its target, which was shrinking with every moment he was Sark.

            "I need to go. I just wanted to make sure you're all right," Sark said dully. He spoke robotically, voiding any emotion that threatened to break through. "I'll call you later."

            He hung up, and pocketed the phone. He had paced to a window, and now stared out through it without seeing anything.           

            Silence reigned for several moments.

            "So when are we going in?" Sydney asked. Sark knew she wasn't deaf to the tone of his conversation with his family, but he respected her focus on the task.

            He walked back over to her and picked up his wine. He downed the rest of the glass and refocused on the intel.

            "It has to be before morning. Three a.m.," he said. "I wish I had time to go in and verify their intel, but they've made it such with this timeline that I can't."

            "I think that's part of their plan," Sydney said. Sark cocked his head to the side. "They're forcing you to rely on them."

            He hated being forced into anything. But Sydney was right; and because he had to rely on them, he wondered if it was a trap. 

            He shook that thought goodbye. _They wouldn't set me up to be captured when they still want something from me_.

            The intel was spread out before him; he'd studied it several times, and it was starting to blur together. Sark sighed and reached for another paper.

            Sydney intercepted him, laying a hand on his.

            "Sark," she said. "Get some rest. We only have a few hours till we go." Her eyes looked directly into his.

            He nodded slowly, drawing a smile from her. Sydney leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

            "I'll wake you at 2:30."


	3. Dec 25th

December 25th

            Every operative had at least one set of black clothing. Sark, even in his retirement, had one. He tightened the laces on his boots. A black turtleneck sweater lay on the couch, and Sark pulled it over his head.

            "You ready?" It was Sydney, and black did amazing things for her. Sark flashed her a grin and nodded.

            Sydney tossed him a ski mask. "So we both aren't recognized," she said.

            The two spies stood outside the post office, staring down at its roof. They were on the roof of the building next to the post office. Sark tried to estimate the distance between the buildings. 

            "You ready for this?" he asked. Sydney nodded, and tightened the strap on a bag over her shoulder. She took several steps back from the edge, pulling her ski mask into place at the same time.

            Sark followed her. The two poised themselves, twenty feet from the edge of the roof.

            Sark was slightly nervous. _I don't get nervous, he reminded himself. But he couldn't ignore his anxiety. _

            _I haven't been on an op for awhile. It's not like he was worried about forgetting how to do this. But __Julian couldn't succeed at what Sark was about to do._

            "Okay," Sydney said, taking a deep breath and a long look ahead.

            "Sydney," Sark said, halting her. She looked at him. "Merry Christmas."

            She smiled at him, and Sark fought to look confidently back. Then he sprinted.

            His legs sprung at the last possible step before the empty space between the two buildings. Sark flew through the air and watched the post office's roof the whole time. His legs ached on impact. Sark rolled off the rest of the force. He somersaulted forward and up on his feet.

            Sydney landed more gracefully. She brushed off the dust and dirt from her clothes.

            Sark took out a rope from her bag and worked on tightening the rope to a pipe on the roof. He tossed the excess over the edge.

            He looked to Sydney.   She nodded.

            She opened a grate protecting the elevator shaft. Sark climbed through, and grasped the cables. Sydney followed.

            They shimmied down the cables and stopped outside the 6th floor elevator door. Sark swung his weight back and forth, moving his body closer to the elevator door. He let go of the cables, and his body hit the ledge below the door. Sark clung to it for a moment, then pulled his weight up so he could place a foot on a small electrical box. His weight balanced between his foot and one arm, while he used a screwdriver to jimmy the elevator door open. 

            The door was sluggish and heavy, but he forced it open. His arm held it back while he nodded to Sydney.

            She swung and jumped from the cables and through the open elevator door. Sydney checked that they were clear before coming back to Sark.

            She held the doors open for Sark. He winced as he pulled himself up and onto the sixth floor.

            "You're out of shape," Sydney whispered. Sark's blue eyes sparkled through the mask's eye holes.

            "See how you do after being in retirement," he mumbled. Her lips curved upward.

            There were cameras along the hallway to the room with the plans. The intel mentioned as much, but Sark knew there wasn't enough time to be discreet. 

            He whipped out a silenced gun. His back was against a wall, just out of the cameras' view. Sydney stood away off, surveying the cameras. She nodded, and Sark turned the corner and fired off two shots.

            Two cameras were out. Sark ran down the hall, and continued to fire at the cameras as he saw them.

            The disruption in the feed would alert the rent-a-cops downstairs, but without seeing intruders, their pace would be slow and without backup. Sark relied on that. 

            He stopped outside the target room. Sydney stopped beside him, and pulled out the descrambler from her shoulder bag. She slid the key half-way through the slot and then hit a button on the descrambler.

            The two stared at the descrambler. Various numbers flashed and morphed on the display.

            _Beep! The key card unit flashed green, and Sark opened the door. _

            Abnormally tall and wide file cabinets bordered the walls, even by the windows. _That may be an issue, Sark thought. One computer monitor and several stacked hard drives were in the center of the room._

            Sark sat in front of the computer, and opened up a file search program. He entered the plan number.

            _83-849226-x11_.

            Another window opened on the screen, and a list of plan numbers appeared. His was highlighted. Sark's eyes followed the line across the screen. In another column on the list was a cabinet number.

            "H14," he called out. Sydney started looking over every cabinet.

            "Here," she said. Sark crossed the room to her. She pulled out drawer 14, and looked through the plans. "Which is it?"

            Sark's eyes scanned over the pile of papers.

            Suddenly, he heard voices from the hall.

            "Take them all," he whispered. Sydney pulled out the plans and rolled them up. Sark moved to a cabinet by the door, and started to push it.

            He bit his lip as he pushed it in front of the door. He heard the guards right outside the door.

            Sark motioned for the window. Sydney nodded. She started to push a cabinet away from the window. 

            The door opened. Sark darted toward Sydney, and pushed the cabinet over. It fell to the ground with an almost deafening crash. Sark whipped out his gun. He saw Sydney's eyes widen with fear for the guards' lives, but Sark aimed and fired at the window. 

            It shattered loudly.

            "Hold it right there!" a guard yelled. Sark didn't even pause. He leaned out the window and grabbed a hold of the rope that waited for them. He took the plans from Sydney and nodded for her to go first. 

            She slid down to the ground, and looked up at him. Sark turned back to the yelling guards. They fired their little 6-round revolvers. A bullet ricocheted off the cabinets, and Sark ducked.

            He fired back, two silent rounds that hit the door, but made the guards back off for a moment. With that moment, Sark stood up and dove out the window, the plans in hand.

            He grabbed the rope with his free hand and barely held on. The rope burned through his glove as gravity threw him towards the ground.

            Sydney picked Sark up to his feet, and the two spies ran into the darkness. Sirens screamed in the early morning air, but Sark's heart rate was finally starting to even out.

            _I'm coming, Ilene._

            They wound down at Sydney's apartment. Sark helped himself to a carton of orange juice. He gulped it down straight from the carton. The cool liquid slid down his throat.

            He swallowed and used the back of his hand to wipe away the orange juice mustache.

            His chest heaved in and out. He blamed it on downing the orange juice, but he knew otherwise.

            "Nervous?" Sydney asked, watching him with a raised eyebrow.

            Sark shrugged. "I hope you don't mind that I helped myself," he said somewhat insincerely. Sydney smiled.

            "Not at all. Nervous?" she repeated.

            Sark sighed. "Somewhat. I have to call them," he said. "And I don't know what restrictions they'll place."

            "You find a way around anything, Sark." Sydney closed the distance between them and grabbed the carton of juice. Her eyes never left his as she downed the rest of the carton.

            Sark pulled out the flip phone the kidnappers gave him. He pressed redial again and took a deep breath.

            "Mr. Sark," came a raspy voice. The accent . . . it was the old man from the yacht. "You have the plans?"

            "Yes. Let me speak to Ilene," Sark ordered. There was a long pause on the end of the line.

            "Very well," the old man consented. The same clicking hiccup in the line connected Sark to the captors.

            "Julian?" Ilene's voice was still timid, but not broken. That gave Sark some hope.

            "Ilene! Are you all right? Have they treated you well?" He immediately rebuked himself for that last question. _She's been kidnapped; how well can she be treated?_

            "I'm all right, but please come get me!" The sudden fear in her voice made Sark tense.

            "Ilene?"

            The line hiccupped and the old man was back on the line.

            "Meet us in Zurich, Switzerland tomorrow at 6 p.m." Sark's body tensed even more when the man said Switzerland. "At 3 p.m., an envelope with instructions will be at the train station under the bench by the ticket counter. Follow the instructions, and you'll see Ilene again."

            The call ended. Sark shut the phone, and looked at Sydney. 

            "Switzerland." He started to pace. "My family is in Switzerland too." Sydney's reaction was swift, and confirmed he had reason to fear.

            "Do you think they know your family is there?" she asked. Sark shrugged and ran a hand through his hair.

            "I don't know if I want to take the chance. If we take them down, but someone survives . . . . It's happened before," he said, thinking of the Hierarchy. Sark used his phone and dialed the cabin his family was at.

            "Hello?" his mother answered.

            "Mom, put Calvin on the phone," Sark said, cutting to the chase. He heard his mother call Calvin.

            "Hello?" his younger brother said.

            "Calvin. Has anyone been at the cabin, anyone suspicious?" Sark asked hurriedly. His brother stammered, thinking aloud.

            "No, not that I've noticed."

            "Have you stayed there?" was Sark's next question.

            "Well, we went to get some food a couple of times," Calvin said. "Why, what's wrong?"

            "Calvin, listen very carefully." Sark paused to make sure he had his brother's attention. "In the master bedroom of the cabin, there's a nightstand. It has one drawer. The drawer has a false bottom. Move it, and there's a gun and a clip of ammunition there." Sark shut his eyes, hating himself for forcing his family down this path. "Either you or Dad carry it. Make sure the safety's on."

            "Okay," was all Calvin said back. His voice wavered a bit.

            Sark opened his eyes and tightened his grasp on the phone. "Calvin, there's more. Keep Mom and Dad in the cabin until someone comes for you. Whoever comes will tell you they work for Irina Derevko."

            "Irina Derevko," Calvin repeated. Sark nodded.

            "Yes. Remember that name for now. And try to forget it later. Okay?"

            "Okay," Calvin replied. "Julian?"

            "What?"

            "Be careful." He heard Calvin sigh. "I don't want you coming back with any more scars."

            Sark shut his eyes again.

            "Thanks, Cal."

            When he opened his eyes again, Sydney was staring intently at him.

            "You're sending my mom to get them?" she asked. Sark nodded.

            "She can get them to safety sooner than I can," he said, dialing another number.

            Sydney paced the room. "You have more faith in her than I do." Sark looked up from the phone at that comment but he heard someone answer the other end of the line.

            "Hi," he said, turning his attention back to the task at hand. "The meeting is in Switzerland. So is my family."

            He listened for an answer.

            "Odd coincidence," Irina said.

            "Exactly. Can you hide my family elsewhere?" Sark asked. 

            "Of course," she said quickly. "What about your meeting?"

            Sark's eyes darkened like a fast-moving storm. "We'll move in on them. I think Ilene will be there. I'll call you when I get to Zurich." He hung up.

            "You don't have much time, Sark." Sydney's hands were on her hips.

            "What is it?" he asked. Something was bothering her. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

            "You're moving so fast that it's easy to make a mistake," she said. Sark didn't answer, but let her continue. "Something about this is wrong. I just can't figure out what."

            Sark moved toward her. "Sydney," he said, his accent smoothing out the tension, "there's nothing right about this situation. But I have to go."

            She nodded. Neither spoke as the unsaid question hung in the air. Sark stared at the floor.

            "I'll still come with you," Sydney said. Sark's head snapped up, his eyes hopeful as they looked into hers. She smiled. "I'll help. All the way."


	4. Dec 26th

a/n: I posted the last chapter too quickly, so pardon this change: this next part takes place in Zurich, not Bern. Thanks to sallene for her help!!

December 26th

            No flight to Switzerland was quick. They got to the airport and onto the first plane they could, but still the flight time and delays meant for a long journey.

            It was already the last day of the agreement, as they lost time on the way toward Switzerland. Sark sighed and shifted in his seat.

            _Last day of the first phase of this agreement, at least. _He still didn't know how long he'd have for breaking into the vault. He shook his head. _I'll get her tonight_, he told himself. He was having trouble thinking positively.

            _What part of any of this is positive?_

_            None of it would have happened if I hadn't chased the stupidest challenge in the world_.

            Sark sighed, drawing a look from Sydney.

            "Only a few more hours," she said. Sark rolled his eyes.

            "Joy," he muttered. Sydney smiled a bit at that, though she tried not to show it. 

            "Get your mind on something else," Sydney suggested. Sark closed his eyes, thinking.

            "Okay," he agreed. His eyes opened, and he turned in his uncomfortable first class seat to face her. "Why did you and your father exchange Christmas gifts at work?"

            Sydney's jaw about dropped. "Okay, go back to moping."

            Sark huffed at that. "I wasn't trying to-never mind." He straightened in his seat and looked out the tiny window. He heard Sydney shift in her seat.

            "The CIA is sending him on a mission. It's a research assignment, something anyone can do. Dad went anyway, though he could have refused," Sydney said. That elegant hand swiped her hair back from her face. "I think he went just so he could have an excuse."

            Sark faced her again. "Excuse for what?" She turned her head, her brown eyes staring directly into his blue ones.

            "To avoid me. Family obligation. Uncomfortable moments of normal family life." The bitterness of the statement wasn't lost on Sark. But Sark couldn't help but feel for Jack Bristow.

            "You know, I think your father and I are very much in the same boat," he said slowly, thinking it out. The remark drew a quick laugh from Sydney. "Seriously. Think about it."

            Sydney gave him a look. Sark sighed and continued.

            "I've spent the last several months recovering from years of our lifestyle and bad choices. And it's been hard to adjust to  . . . normal life." He paused. "Not to mention that my family will never understand the things I've done."

            Sydney didn't say anything, but she didn't laugh either.

            "Maybe your father stays away because he doesn't feel like he deserves you. Or that you can accept him," Sark said. "I used to feel that way." 

            Sydney looked down at her hands.

            "Maybe," she consented, almost inaudibly. She looked up at him. "Did your family not react well?"

            Sark laughed at that, but the pain was still there. He ran a hand through his blonde hair.

            "No," he replied softly. He sighed. "It's hard enough to comprehend at all, much less with me being the bad guy." He paused, remembering their reactions. "My father even said it was easier thinking I was dead."

            Sydney gasped at that. Sark nodded.

            "Not that I blame him," he said. "I thought the same thing." He tried to be nonchalant about it, but feared he was failing miserably.

            "It's not easy hearing that from your own family," Sydney said. "But I bet they wouldn't trade having you back for anything."

            Sark nodded but without conviction. "They would if they could have Ilene back. And I would be fine with that."

            Sark shut his eyes. He leaned heavily into the seat and tried to rest. He could feel Sydney's eyes on him, but he just tried to ignore it. 

            _I don't want to feel right now_.

            Sydney cleared her throat, signaling a change in topic. "If we take out the kidnappers, how will you get Ilene back?"

            Sark opened his eyes. "She'll be there. She's close at least. I don't think they're keeping her far away at all."

            "How do you know that?"

            Sark shut his eyes again. "Just a feeling."

            They landed in Zurich at 12 p.m. Sark called Irina immediately.

            "We're here," he said.

            "There's a coffee shop across the Limmat River from the Swiss National Museum. Go to the flat above the shop as soon as you can. The train station isn't far from there." Irina hung up. Sark turned to Sydney.

            "Ready to see your mom again?" he asked with a smile. She nodded tentatively.

            "Let's go."

            The flat was much more lavish than the one in London, Sark noticed. Irina was pouring herself a cup of chilled water when they entered.

            "Sydney!" Irina quickly ran to her daughter and hugged her. Sydney was stiff but tried to hug her mother back. Irina held her back at arms' length, inspecting her daughter's appearance. "You look beautiful."

            Sydney almost blushed, but nodded.

            "Thanks."

            Irina turned to Sark. "How are you holding up?"

            "I'll be fine after tonight," he said. "Is my family safe?" 

            Irina nodded. "Yes. One of my men is moving them constantly, just to be sure." She moved to a desk, and pulled out a file. "This is all I've found on the kidnappers. There's no group or agency name, but they follow Leonardo Strachen. He's a 63-year-old Portuguese-German. I don't have a photo."

            Sark didn't need a photo. "That sounds like the man I met. What do they want?"

            Irina pursed her lips together and tossed the file on the kitchen counter. "I don't know." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, causing Sark to do a double-take between mother and daughter.

            He held up a cardboard tube with the plans inside. "Well, maybe this will help." He pulled out the plans for the mysterious vault, and spread them over the kitchen counter.

            "What's it to?" Irina asked impatiently.

            Sark shrugged. "We haven't had the time or place to go over the plans yet. This is everything we took from the vault." He thumbed through the corners of the plans.

            Irina immediately leaned over them. A title spread out on the sides of the large papers.

            "NSA Copperfield Vault," Sark read aloud. "I wonder what the NSA is hiding there."

            "Why 'Copperfield'?" Sydney asked. 

            Irina pointed a finger at the plans. "The vault is underground. Look at these marks," she said.

            Sark leaned closer, his face inches above the papers. The marks were like ridges. Rocky but with refined at parts, like rock that is purposely shaped. 

            "It's a mine," Sark said aloud. "Copper, I bet."

            Sydney leaned closer, double-checking his discovery. Her hair fell by his face and tickled his nose. 

            "Why put a vault in a mine?" she thought out loud. 

            "It's the last place I would look," Sark said. "Strachen knows what's in it." He checked his watch. "And I'll find out soon enough."

            Sydney looked at her watch. "Two thirty-five." She looked at Sark. "You better go."

            He nodded, but didn't move when he saw her eyes. Ignoring the presence of his former employer and Sydney's mother, Sark moved to Sydney and kissed her. He put his hands at the small of her back, pulling her close to him.

            Her skin was so soft, and her hair tickled his face. He ran a hand through her hair, enjoying the silkiness of it and the tenderness between them.

            He finally pulled back. "I'll see you later." 

            Irina was rolling up the plans. She put them in the cardboard tube and handed them to him.

            "Be careful."

            Sark nodded. He leaned over his boot, and pulled out his knife. He'd taken it before he sent his family to the cabin. Sark blamed it on superstition-he'd succeeded with it in the past. Now he needed it again.

            "Do you have a gun I can use?" Sark asked Irina. She shot him a reproving look.

            "They'll find it, Sark."

            He shot her his own look. "Yes, I know. Gun, please?" Irina opened a kitchen drawer and tossed him a gun. He tucked it in the back of his pants. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything," he said.

            He shot Sydney a parting glance, and Sark could have sworn she was almost scared for him. He smiled reassuringly at her, and left.

            The envelope was taped to the bottom of the bench by the ticket counter. Sark ripped it off the bench and opened it up.

            Inside was a photo of Ilene. Her red hair was tangled, and her eye makeup was smeared on her face. She looked terrified; maybe it was because her hands were tied and her mouth was taped that she appeared so scared, but either way, Sark didn't like it.

            He bottled his emotions and pulled out a piece of paper. The instructions were simple:

            _Take the __3:05__ train to the other side of __Lake__Zurich__. Go to the pier and find the Lady Refuge._

_6 p.m._

            Sark cut the ticket line, ignoring protests from post-holiday travelers as he bought a ticket for the train.

            He ran to the platforms. His train was already pulling out. Sark started to run, his legs pumping quickly to catch up. The train moved on, but Sark was faster. His hand reached for a handle bar. He grabbed it and pulled himself closer.

            Sark jumped onto the stairs, just as the train moved completely away from the platform.

            The train ride was two hours long, but Sark was tense the whole time. No one on the train was following him, or watching him. He had called Irina as soon as it seemed clear.

            She had sworn into the phone; getting to the pier was going to be tight. Sark was certain Strachen and his associates planned it that way. He knew Irina and Sydney might not be at the pier in time to back him up.

            He would have to improvise.

            The sun was completely gone by the time he reached the pier, and the ocean winds tore through Sark. He pulled his leather jacket closer to his body. His gun pressed against his back.

            The pier was remarkably empty, but that's probably why Strachen chose it. Sark paced the docks, swinging the tube of plans in one hand as he searched for the Lady Refuge.

            He found it at the end of one dock. Sark stopped and looked the boat over. It was large, but not nearly the luxury he expected after the meeting in London. 

            It was a fishing boat. 

            Sark squinted his eyes, trying to figure this latest twist.

            _Decoy._

            He heard footsteps behind him.

            Sark prepared his best and coldest smirk. He turned around to face the newcomers. He folded his arms across his chest, but the plans in one hand poked out awkwardly. It diminished his intimidating stance. 

            "Mr. Sark," one man said. "Get on the boat." The man raised a gun, waving it towards the boat.

            Sark tried to veil his confusion, until he heard a boat motor. A small speed boat pulled up by the Lady Refuge. Sark looked back at the men behind him. One of them poked him in the back with the gun.

            He sighed and jumped down into the speed boat. His hands clutched the plans; they were his only bargaining power at the moment. If Irina had arrived at the piers in time, there was no way she was ready for a change of venue.

            The speed boat whipped across the water, which grew rougher. Sark looked up at the sky. It was completely covered in clouds. He saw lightening flash further out.

            The boat approached a very large and luxurious yacht waiting out in the middle of the ocean.

            It towered over the water, especially from Sark's vantage point along side the hull.

            Someone rolled out a rope ladder down to the speed boat. Sark, seeing no way to hold onto the plans and climb at the same time, tossed the plans to the deckhand. He climbed up quickly.

            Thunder crashed above them. Sark glanced at the sky as it opened up. He was hustled inside just when the rain started to fall.

            Strachen was dressed in a stately grey silk suit, and he sat in an oversized armchair. He wore his arrogance openly, a trait that Sark usually claimed for himself. Sark settled on a dissatisfied smirk. 

            The plans were given to Strachen. Three men around Sark set upon him. Two held his arms while the other searched Sark.

            Sark bit his lip, but allowed the search. He surveyed the room; windows, doors to other rooms, and stairs leading to the lower cabins. The rain was pouring down the windows in small rivulets. 

            The searcher paused when he found the gun. He pulled it out and waved it for Strachen to see. The other two men released Sark.

            Strachen flashed him a questioning look.

            "Is this really necessary?" he said, pointing to the gun. Sark just smirked back. "I thought you were going to cooperate."

            "I will," Sark said, "when I see Ilene."

            Strachen stared at Sark, who just matched the look back. 

            "You forget your place again, Mr. Sark."

            "No," Sark said. "Let me see my sister, or get someone else to rob your petty vault."

            Strachen actually grinned at that, showing two full rows of unbleached teeth. He nodded to the men behind Sark.

            He was kicked behind the knees, and fell instantly on all fours. The men grabbed his arms, pulling them back behind him. Sark felt his head being yanked back by his hair while he was kept on his knees.

            "Your sister is very beautiful," Strachen said, rising from his leather armchair. Sark's eyes flashed like flames. "But she is naïve. She doesn't know what you are, does she?"

            Strachen nodded again, this time to a guard by a door to a lower cabin. Sark heard faint cries, and soon he saw her.

            _Ilene!_ Her hands were bound, and her clothes dirty, but she was alive.

            She looked scared, yet her eyes lit up when she saw him.

            "Julian!" she cried out. She tried to run to him, but the guard threw her onto the floor by Strachen's feet.

            Sark struggled at that, but the men behind him twisted his arms further. He stilled. 

            "Ilene, darling," Strachen said, "Did you know that your brother is a murderer?" Ilene's defiance was instantaneous.

            "Liar," she muttered from the ground. She started to get up; Strachen slapped her, and she crumbled back down with a cry. Sark's eyes still blazed at Strachen.

            "That's not wise if you wish me to cooperate," Sark seethed between clenched teeth.

            "Tell her the truth, Mr. Sark," Strachen said. He looked down at Ilene. "Sark was the most accomplished and strong spy in the intelligence world. But he didn't work for any government; he killed, stole, destroyed-all for money and power."

            Ilene wasn't buying it, given the source, but Sark knew that'd be a problem he'd have to address later. 

            "Sark knows a lot of information too. There isn't a government around that wouldn't torture him for what he knows," Strachen said, a creepy smile spreading over his face. Sark wasn't sure where he was headed with this. "The Hierarchy already tried their best. Beatings, cuts, cattle prods. . . . The water bins really started to wear you down, of all things."

            _What the  . . . _Sark's confusion couldn't be hid.

            "How do you know about that?" he questioned. Strachen just smiled, and nodded at the men holding Sark.

            A designated hitter came forward, and kicked Sark right in the stomach. He gasped and groaned, and tried to clutch the pain. The men still held his arms back, until Sark felt them pulling his jacket off of him. They let go of him and he was dropped.

            Another kick landed on his chest, and Sark could have sworn he heard a rib crack. He wheezed a bit, coughing to catch his breath. He felt another hit, this one a punch to his face.

            Black faded over his vision for a second. He heard Ilene shout, and felt hands on his chest, pulling at his dark sweater and the undershirt beneath it. The men picked him up, lifting him to his feet and forcing him to stay still. Sark just glared at Strachen. The guards pulled Sark's sweater up to his chin.

            "See the scars, Ilene?" Strachen pointed to Sark's chest. "They tortured him for days." Sark could feel his sister's eyes, wide and questioning as they surveyed the variety of scars. "Imagine what they might have done to you to get what they wanted."

            Sark tried to rush at Strachen, but the guards twisted his arm again and pinned it up behind his back. One guard delivered a swift blow to his side. Sark yelped at that before he could stop himself. He made himself recover quickly.

            "You lay a hand on her, and what I did to the Hierarchy will be merciful compared to what I do to you." He said the threat between gasps for breath, but his eyes showed his seriousness. Strachen nodded.

            "I'm sure of it. After all, you even blew up Halzden."

            "Who are you?" Sark demanded. Strachen knew too much; that he chose Sark wasn't coincidence. _There's another motive_.

            "The former leader of the Hierarchy," Strachen admitted with pride. "A silent, but superior partner." His smile grew, and it was obvious Strachen was quite pleased with himself.

            "So that's it," Sark whispered. "This is your revenge?" He huffed at that, but Strachen merely shook his head.

            "I'm above revenge. Your abilities are quite clear. No, I used you to redeem yourself," Stachen said. "You destroyed my organization. I've rebuilt it, but certain things can't be replaced." He flicked his hand towards Ilene, and one of his men picked her off the floor.

            The guard pulled out a long bladed knife, and pressed it against Ilene's throat. Sark tensed. Strachen's threat was clear, and Sark knew what he had to do to save his sister.

            "Tell me about the vault," Sark said, holding his rage back with the façade of professionalism. Strachen grinned at that, and Ilene was thrown down to the ground again. The guard kept the knife pointed at her like a sword. 

            Strachen held up the plans, waving them at Sark.

            "The NSA vault is in the Kennecott Copper mine. The vault's technology is unsurpassed," Strachen said sternly. "The vault contains, among other things, data storage. There is a large directory of files called Retract. It has all the inventions and discoveries that the United States wished they never found."

            Sark allowed himself to smirk at that. "Information. That's what you want?"

            "Mr. Sark, you of all people know that information is power. I was mere months away from power when you destroyed my organization." Strachen glanced at Ilene. "You choose the way you apologize to me: by getting the Retract directory, or by saying goodbye to your sister."

            Sark's eyes burned into Strachen's skull. Thunder clashed again outside the boat.

            "How long do I have to get the directory?" Sark answered. Ilene was quite obviously relieved, but looked as confused as ever. Sark ordered himself to ignore her for now, for her own protection.

            Something caught his eye, out the window. Sark saw a gleam of light. It blinked, on and off. Sark pretended to listen to Strachen, but focused on the light.

            _Morse code_.

            _Sydney._ They were outside, just waiting for him. Sark felt a rush of blood throughout his body. The adrenaline started to fuel his brain. Sark glanced around the cabin. 

            One guard still had a knife pointed at Ilene. Three more men stayed to watch Sark. And Strachen was eagerly explaining the timeline for breaking into the vault.

            Sark slowly rolled his ankle around in his boot. His ankle grated against his knife; the knife felt out of place after months of retiring it to his father's drawer.

            Strachen spread out the plans, and beckoned Sark to look over them. He obliged.

            Strachen wasn't a thin man, by any means, but there was extra bulk that Sark instantly recognized as a gun.

            The plan automatically formulated in his brain.

            "The elevator shaft goes down almost further than you can see. A large dump truck looks like a matchbox car when placed at the bottom," Strachen detailed. "The security appears minimal, but once at the bottom of the mine, you'll see more."

            Sark nodded, but glanced at Ilene. His eyes hardened when he looked back at Strachen.

            Strachen flipped through the plans, and froze.

            "What's this? The other pages are not to the vault!"

            It was Sark's turn to freeze as confusion made him rethink his position.

            _Irina_. The rest of the pages were marked 'United States Postal Service.' Sark smirked at that-_clever woman_. Her cleverness forced him to move earlier than he intended.

            He went for his knife, lifting his foot to his hand. He grabbed the handle and lashed out with a quick turn. His right arm went around Strachen's neck, with the knife in his right hand at the man's throat. He was ready to just slide his arm away and bring the blade over Strachen's windpipe.

            The guard by Ilene stood up, shocked at the turn of events. Ilene scrambled away from his knife.

            The guards hesitated, their hands hovering for their weapons, but waiting for direction.

            _Fools_. Sark pressed the blade again Strachen.

            "Only a fool has to be taught the same lesson twice," he hissed into Strachen's ear. Sark's left hand snaked into Strachen's expensive suit jacket. He removed the gun and pointed it at the guard closest to him.

            "Weapons down," he ordered. Strachen mumbled something, but shut up promptly.

            The guards didn't move. Sark smirked at that, and just fired. He changed his aim at the last second, and hit the guard closest to Ilene.

            Sark spun his body around, well aware of the blade slicing across Strachen's throat. Sark had the gun up and firing as he spun to the ground, avoiding return fire. 

            Three shots later, and the guards were dead. Strachen was trying to yell through the gap in his windpipe. More guards were coming.

            Sark dove for his sister, who cowered on the floor.

            "Come on, Ilene," he ordered. He grabbed her bound hands and pulled her up. They ran for the door just as it was opened by another guard.

            Ilene screamed; Sark fired. 

            The gun had 9 shots; he'd used five.

            They ran, out through one cabin and into another. In a tight hallway, two guards met them. One swung at Sark with an automatic rifle, catching him in the chin. Sark snarled at the man, and plowed into him like a defensive lineman.

            The other man went for Ilene. Sark was on his feet again, and dove back to save his sister. He grabbed the man's foot, and pulled the fallen man towards him. The guards struggled with Sark, but he didn't feel their blows. He blocked a hit, and landed a punch directly at one guard's heart. The man stumbled back, trying to catch a hold on his life.

            Sark lashed out a kick to the other guard, then searched the floor for his weapons. He found his knife, and quickly picked it up. Sark twirled it in his hand and lunged for the guard. The knife slipped in between the man's ribs.

            Ilene's mouth was open; the shock was settling in. Sark sheathed his knife, grabbed his sister and pulled her behind him.

            They made it to the open deck. The cold rain pelted them, and Sark couldn't help but think back to Burma. He ignored the cold on his skin, seeping through his sweater. He ran for the port side of the yacht.

            He saw another boat as lightening flashed. _Irina_.

            "There!" he announced to Ilene, pointing at the boat. She nodded numbly. Suddenly a bullet hit by their feet. Sark ducked, pulling Ilene to the deck with him. 

            The shooter was on the top deck and he continued to fire. Sark half-dove on top of Ilene, covering her body with his.

            They rolled behind a deck lounger. Sark's chest heaved with the intensity. He looked out into the ocean. 

            The waves were high. Even the yacht started to pitch in the rough waters. Sark clenched his teeth together and got to his feet. He stayed crouched down, but looked for the shooter.

            "Ilene," he said loudly over the rain and waves, "we have to jump." Her eyes widened, and her body shivered. Sark took her hands, and grabbed his knife. He cut through the bindings, and re-sheathed the blade. "Ready?"

            She shook her head. Sark grabbed her by the wrist, and stood up. They both ran for the side of the boat, jumping up onto deck chairs and sailing out through the air.

            The plunge into the dark water made Sark gasped. He fought for the surface.

            "Julian!" he heard as soon as his head broke above the water. Ilene was flailing in the rough waves. 

            He swam towards her, but the waves kept pushing him back and forth.

            Sark heard gunfire behind them just as he felt something tear through his left leg. He yelled out at the stinging pain.

            _Focus! Get to the boat!_ Sark pulled himself through the waves with his arms. 

            He saw flashes ahead of him, and heard the gunfire. He could see Sydney firing back. Sark didn't allow himself to smile at that, but put everything he had into making it to safety.

            He reached Ilene and held onto her with one hand.

            "We're almost there!" he yelled. His leg ached, but he tried to push it to the background. Seawater washed over his head, and he swallowed at the wrong moment. He coughed and shook his head.

            Irina's boat was getting closer. It circled around them to block them from Strachen's yacht and the gunfire.

            Someone threw something to him. It was a life preserver. Sark pushed it to Ilene, and she was pulled towards the boat.

            Sark was getting tired. His leg went numb, and his chest ached from the early kicks.

            _Swim!_

            He pulled himself closer with each stroke. The boat was only a few feet away, and he saw someone helping Ilene to the deck.

            He smiled.

            A wave crashed over him from behind. Sark slipped below the surface.

            The roar of the ocean, even underwater, was deafening. Sark kicked with his good leg, and pawed for the air.

            The cold was making him sluggish. He felt his hand break the surface and kicked again.

            Someone grabbed his hand, and pulled him up. Sark coughed hard, spilling seawater from his mouth and lungs. 

            "Calm down," he heard Irina say. It was almost patronizing, but Sark ignored it. He felt someone pick him up under his shoulders and drag him out of the rain. The boat's engines roared, and Sark knew he succeeded.

            "Julian?"

            He tried to sit up, and ended up leaning against a cabin wall.

            Ilene was soaked, her red hair tangled in wavy curls against her face. Sark held out his arms to her, and she stumbled to him.

            He hugged her tightly and breathed a sigh of relief. "You're safe," he whispered. He stroked her hair with one hand as he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

            Despite what she was starting to know about her brother, Ilene hugged him back.

            Sydney came in, drenched from the rain. She put her weapon down and ran a hand through her long wet hair.

            "We almost lost you, at the pier," she said as she wrung out the water from her hair.

            Sark smiled. "Yeah, I was surprised there too," he admitted. "I'm glad you made it though."

            Sydney smiled back, until her eyes fell on the growing blood spot by his leg.

            "Mom! Where's the first aid kit?"

            Sark almost laughed when Sydney called Irina 'mom.' Something about it was just so normal despite their very dysfunctional relationship.

            His humor was interrupted by pressure to the wound.

            "Ow!!" he yelped. Ilene backed up as Sydney started working on his leg.

            "Julian, are you okay?" He glanced at his sister, and saw how frightened she still looked. He smiled reassuringly.

            "Yes, it's nothing I haven't been through before," he muttered, though his body didn't remember being this affected in the past.

            His eyelids suddenly felt very heavy. Sark let himself relax, and slumped on the floor.


	5. The Morning After

The Morning After

            The birds chirping outside his window was very odd. The absent-minded joyfulness of it almost made Sark nervous. He quickly sat up.

            And clutched his leg almost immediately. It was bandaged up in white gauze. The left pantleg was cut off to accommodate the wound.

            He'd been resting in a nice bed, ornately adorned in a bronze headboard. His sweater and shirt were gone, but fresh clothes waited for him at the foot of his bed.

            Sark glanced towards the birds. The trees which they perched on were white. The rest of the scenery beyond the trees was semi-familiar. 

            _France_. He'd been here before. In fact, he had stationed himself at this particular chateau for awhile when he worked for Irina.

            _Irina. __Sydney__. The plans._

_            Ilene!_

            Sark stumbled out of bed, and almost to the floor when pain shot through his left leg. He gasped and grabbed at anything he could to steady himself.

            His chest heaved with exertion.

            _Exertion?!__ You call that exertion? You are so weak_.

            He told his mind to shut up. _Being out of shape is the least of my worries_.   
            A door opened before him, and Sark breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Ilene. She carried a tray of food, and gasped when she saw him.

            "Julian! You should be in bed," she said, half-scolding him. "Lie down right now!" She stormed towards him, forcing him to hop backwards and flop on the bed.

            "Are you okay?" he asked, trying to ignore her commands. Ilene pursed her lips together, nodding unconvincingly as she placed the tray of food before him. Sark sat up in the bed again, and poked at the soup and assortment of breads on the tray.

            Ilene started to pace at the foot of the bed, but didn't say anything.

            "Ilene," he called, getting her attention. "Would you stop pacing please?" That got her attention, but a familiar fire lit up in her eyes. He'd ticked her off.

            "That man," she began, "he wasn't lying about you, was he?"

            Sark muffled a groan. He picked up a roll, creatively munching on it without answering.

            "Julian," Ilene said. "You've avoided this long enough. Tell me the truth."

            Sark swallowed the bread, and it scraped his throat as it went down. He glared at the roll and tossed it at the closed window by the birds. The birds scattered at the noise from the impact.

            "I never wanted to drag you through my past," he said, almost whispering. Ilene's eyes pressed him for more. He cleared his throat. "Years ago, after I  . . . left you all, I became Mr. Sark."

            "Julian Sark?"

            He smirked at that. "No, just Sark." He paused, taking a deep breath. He didn't know how to admit what he was without showing emotion he rarely showed. So he buried it all, and spoke like himself. Like Sark.

            "I was a spy, working for my interests. I stole, killed, blackmailed, anything to achieve my objectives. And I was good at it, all of it."

            Ilene stopped pacing and just stared at him. The horror on her face didn't go unnoticed. She blinked.

            "How can you be so cold, even just telling me about this?" she said in whispers. "You're like a machine, not my brother."

            Sark sighed and bowed over the bed, stretching out the pain in his mind and body. He ran a hand through his salty hair.

            "Ilene, it was who I was for those years—"

            "Julian," she cut him off. "You were that same person just yesterday." He sat upright again, looking into her eyes for what she meant. "I saw you kill those men on that yacht."

            "Ilene, they would have killed—"

            "I know, but you _enjoyed_ it."

            Sark froze, unable to think through that and yet unable to contest it.

            "You shot those men with such . . . I've never seen you hate that much. You thought nothing of their blood on your hands." She went to his side, pointing a finger at him accusingly. "Who are you anymore, Julian?"

            His eyes flashed with anger, and Sark pushed away her hand. He wanted to lash out, argue, make her feel bad, but he knew she deserved better. He sighed, letting the anger subside for her benefit. Sark got to his feet, half-hopping towards the bathroom.

            "If you'll excuse me, I should wash off the salt from your rescue," he said. His voice held no emotion, though his words and meaning did. He almost rebuked himself for not hiding more.

            The steam in the shower was partially from the hot water and partially from the rage that ran through him.

            Sark wasn't angry at Ilene; she was right.

            _Who are you anymore?_ He least of all didn't know.

            _Julian. __Sark__._

_            Brother. Murderer. _

_            Son. Thief._

            The water ran over his face, washing away the saltiness. He ignored the stinging in his leg and just let the water cleanse him. 

            _Sydney_. He was used to these internal debates being triggered by her, but she'd finally accepted him. She knew there were acceptable times to kill, to steal, to blackmail.

            _But does she enjoy it?_

_            Do you?_

            The new clothes were pressed. It was a suit, completely black with a French blue shirt. The tie left out was red, which to him didn't really go with the ensemble, but he didn't mind.

            He had found more bandages on the bathroom counters, and changed them on his leg. He hobbled around to get the suit pants on, wincing as he hopped.

            He silenced his mind. His only thoughts were on getting dressed without killing himself. 

            The tie was adjusted perfectly in length. Sark straightened the collar on the suit jacket before moving for the door.

            He needed to see Irina.

            Sark tried his best to hide any semblance of a limp, but knew it still showed. He hid the pain well though, something he was proud of himself for; he hadn't done so well with pain of late. _Maybe I'm getting back to my old self._ That thought almost scared him.

            It was early afternoon. The chateau was quiet. Sark started down the stairs to the studies and lounges.

            He heard whispering from one room. Sark slowed his already painfully languid pace. He crept closer, but stopped short of the doorway when he recognized the voices.

            It was Sydney and Ilene.

            "Burma?" Ilene asked.

            "Yeah," he heard Sydney say. "The same group that kidnapped you, took us there. It was . . . they did a lot to your brother."

            "I saw the scars," Ilene said.

            Sark self-consciously ran a hand over his chest.

            "He protected me. He let them torture him, so I wouldn't be hurt," Sydney said. "I didn't appreciate that at first."

            "How long were you there?"

            "Several days." There was a pause, as if Sydney was collecting herself before continuing. "Sark was unconscious more than he was awake while we were there. The beatings, the torture . . . they were relentless. And yet somehow he still managed to protect me."

            "I'm surprised he cared about anyone other than himself." Ilene mumbled it, but that didn't deaden the effect it had on Sark. He shut his eyes, trying to steel himself from that candid statement.

            "Ilene, he does care," Sydney said. "He just doesn't know how to show it."

            Ilene sighed loudly at that. "I don't understand why not. Growing up, he was a very kind brother. He was quiet, but I never thought he'd . . . I never imagined he would be this cold criminal."

            Sark started to back away. He didn't want to hear anymore.

            "This life changes you. What Sark did was stupid. But what you don't know is that he hates himself for choosing it," Sydney said. Sark halted his retreat. "I've seen Sark endure physical torture that few highly trained operatives could ever get through. What really hurts him is knowing what he gave up, and knowing he missed so much because of his choices. His life will never be what it used to be, never be as simple as it is for you."

            Ilene hadn't said anything for awhile, and Sydney pressed ahead.

            "I condemned him early on without even trying to understand. Don't make the same mistake," she said. "He's suffered more than you'll ever know or understand."__

            Sark heard someone move within the room. He knew he'd be caught eavesdropping, and started to stumble in his haste.

            "Sydney," he heard Ilene call out. Sark caught himself from falling. "Thanks."

Sark continued his retreat, slipping into another study.

            He stayed in the study, trying to catch his breath as he waited for Sydney and Ilene to move on.

            "That wasn't the best audio surveillance you've ever conducted," came a voice. Sark snapped his head towards the source. Irina sat catfully poised behind a desk, her hands neatly folded in her lap and a coy smile dancing on her lips.

            Sark smirked in response.

            "Well, I haven't been at my best lately," he said. "Blame it on being rusty." Irina waved him in. Sark shut the study door and limped to a chair in front of the desk.

            "What will it take to get you in shape?" Irina asked. Sark raised an eyebrow.

            "You want me to do something?" he asked, skeptical. He didn't think she would be so blatant in trying to persuade him to come back. But he knew she was up to something. "Why do I have a feeling this has to do with the plans you took?"

            She smiled, that familiar look of quasi-maternal pride spreading over her face.

            "Yes, I took the plans. Sydney was concerned you'd be forced to give them up, and might have to risk her loyalties," Irina said. Sark just sat and listened. He wasn't surprised that Sydney was concerned about that—she'd said as much on the plane. 

            "But that's not the only reason you took them. I doubt Sydney even knows you have the plans," Sark replied. "To be honest, your relationship with your daughter has improved, but she hardly trusts you implicitly."

            Irina's dark eyes glowed at that. The smile spread to her eyes. "You're right. She doesn't know I have the plans. I took them when you kissed her in Zurich."

            There was no inflection or awkwardness when she blatantly said the word, but that didn't stop Sark from feeling blood rush to his head anyway.

            "Sydney's in danger."

            Sark's eyes darted back and forth at Irina.

            "What do you mean?" There was no concern in Irina's voice, which immediately elevated his suspicions.

            "We can prevent this, but we have to act somewhat quickly," she continued.

            "Prevent what?" Sark's muscles tightened; his whole body was rigid. 

            "There may be others who know about the vault," Irina said. "Some of the data within it directly affects Sydney."

            "The Retract files," Sark mumbled, seeing where this was headed. "What, the technology on it?"

            Irina nodded. "It'll affect Sydney in two ways if it gets out. One, she'll be sent to retrieve it. And who knows who she'll be up against. Two, the technology in the Retract files can be used against her."

            Sark shot Irina a look that challenged her borderline melodrama. "It could be used against anyone. What makes you think it'll target Sydney?"

            Irina took a deep breath while tucking her hair behind an ear.

            "I received some intelligence awhile ago about these files. Nothing concrete, but there's rumor that the files have a program that can break through any intelligence network. Everything the CIA has about her would almost be public knowledge."

            Sark shot her another look.

            "Sark, there's more. There's a surveillance system that can penetrate anywhere. No one would be safe—no security for, say, intelligence operatives going undercover to save the world every day," Irina said. She stared through him. "Add on retroviruses and a half-dozen other catastrophic inventions, and Sydney doesn't have a chance. None of us do."

            Sark sighed. "What are you suggesting?"

            Irina took another deep breath. "We get the data and destroy it."

            Sark didn't respond but just stared at her. A million curses and thoughts went through his mind. When he finally silenced them, he spoke.

            "Irina, do you honestly think I would risk my life, Sydney's inevitable anger at us going after the data, and the life I've tried to rebuild, all by doing this?"

            Her eyes darted to the side, and suddenly Sark knew something was dreadfully wrong.

            "What haven't you told me?" he demanded. He didn't raise his voice, but there was ice in his tone. Irina almost glared at him in response, but softened her features.

            "Your family has gone missing."

            If he hadn't been Sark, he might have ignored his bad leg and just leap over the desk for Irina's throat. His teeth clenched together, grinding as he controlled the rage within him.

            "What do you mean, my family is missing?" he said.

            "I had a man moving them constantly, just to be safe," Irina started to explain. "But they left him early this morning. It appears they were afraid, and didn't trust him."

            Sark's first emotion was relief that they weren't kidnapped. His second was frustration for such incompetence from the man who was supposed to be taking care of his family. His third was distrust.

            "You've gone from asking me to help save Sydney to telling me that you've lost my family," Sark said, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. "You've connected them together. Why?"

            "Sark, I've already ordered that your family be found and protected immediately. We'll find them—they're just scared right now. But I need your help, to stop Strachen."

            His eyes blazed.

            "I was under the impression that Strachen is dead," he seethed between a clenched jaw.

            Irina shook her head. "No, he survived. He isn't singing much, but he's alive. And with you escaping and thwarting him again, he'll be even more ambitious in getting into the vault."

            Sark suddenly stood, favoring his left leg but trying to ignore the pain through his anger. He hobbled around the room, fuming to himself and trying to clear his head.

            _How did he live? I slit his throat_. Sark sighed. _But I didn't see him die._

            He stopped his rough pacing and steadied himself by a liquor cabinet. "The Hierarchy has been around too long. And every time I think I've eradicated the world of them, another one pops up, alive and well." He sighed again, and ran a hand through his blonde hair.

            Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Irina stand and walk to the cabinet. She poured herself a drink, and one for Sark.

            "Strachen is alive, but hardly well. He was seen leaving Zurich in a medical escort."

            "Where is he now?" Sark asked. Irina shook her head, and he bit the inside of his cheek. 

            He grabbed the drink she poured him, downing it with one gulp. As he slammed the glass onto the cabinet, it shattered in front of him, slicing his fingertips and palm.

            He held his hand up to his face, completely unfazed by the blood that spilt.

            "I'll help you get rid of the data."

            Irina nodded with a slight smile. "What about your sister? I can keep her here if you'd like."

            Sark glared at his former boss. "My family's been lost in your care. Ilene will come with me."

            He shook his hand out, sending little droplets of blood on the cabinet. With plenty of disdain evident on his face, Sark wiped his hand on the black suit, and limped out of the study.


	6. Reconstruction

Reconstruction

            Sark went outside on the chateau's property. He started to walk, to just disappear for awhile on the grounds. It hurt his leg, every step, but he forced himself to push that aside.

            The cold air stung his bleeding hand. Sark loosened his tie with his good hand, and slipped the tie off his neck. He wrapped the red tie over the cuts, gripping the hand-woven silk to stop the blood and the stinging.

            Old snow covered the ground. His feet crunched on top of the snow just before falling a few inches down to the ground beneath the iciness. He listened to the awkward rhythm of his steps.

            Of all things, Irina lost track of his family. _They could be anywhere now_, he thought. On the other hand, it wouldn't be too hard to find them. Irina had said she was already working on it. 

            And now he had to focus on the vault. Sydney wouldn't like it. He already knew he would have to lie to her about that. She probably wanted the plans back, just so they weren't in Irina's hands.

            _What about Ilene?_ Sark sighed loudly to the trees. A cloud of his breath dissipated into the air.

            _She can't be with me on the mission. She doesn't trust me anymore_. When Sark first reappeared to his family, she was the most accepting of him. But now that she'd seen firsthand just how ruthless he could be . . .

            _She doesn't know me anymore._

            He shook his head, and winced at a sudden flash of pain in his leg. He gasped and stopped, clutching his left calf. 

            He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath.

            It would be hard to make amends with Ilene. It would take time, time he didn't have. Right now he had to focus on getting stronger. 

            _Sydney__._ He would leave Ilene with Sydney. His sister wouldn't be happy about being left, but she trusted Sydney. 

            That was more than Ilene felt about Sark.

            He allowed himself to rest somewhat. Irina made copies of the plans to the vault, and gave the originals to Sydney. That had earned some respect in Sydney's eyes, but Sark wasn't concerned with that façade.

            He focused on the mission now.

            The copies were spread out on the table in front of him. A glass of wine held down one end of the plans.

            He traced a finger over the plans, tracking how deep to the bottom of the mine. He typed a note on his laptop, and continued.

            It was automatic, this planning. He felt his mind slipping into a familiar pattern: strategy, caution, and stealth.

            This continued for hours. When Sark looked at his watch, it was eleven o'clock. The birds outside his window were quiet, no doubt asleep for a few hours.

            He sighed and sipped at his glass. His leg was starting to throb. Sark stood, gingerly favoring his left leg. He rolled up the plans and hid them under his bed.

            His hand stopped bleeding hours ago, but was wrapped up. He pulled at the gauze, and discarded it. The cuts were inflamed.

            Sark unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it on a chair. He left the suit pants on, and fell onto the bed. He sighed as he stared at the ceiling.

            A knock at the door roused him from near-sleep.

            "Come in," he said smoothly. The door opened, and he was pleasantly surprised when Sydney walked in.

            He stared at her. She wore a simple sweater and jeans, but looked amazing as always. The sleeves of the sweater were too long and covered most of her hands. It was endearing, almost timid. 

            "How are you?" she asked as he sat up against the headboard. He was well aware that his shirt was off, and couldn't help but feel somewhat self-conscious. Her eyes explored his chest.

            He cleared his throat. "All right," he said vaguely. "I, uh, overheard you earlier. With Ilene."

            Sydney glanced at the floor briefly. She sat on the edge of his bed.

            "I hope you didn't mind."

            Sark shook his head. "On the contrary. Thank you." He glanced at his bare feet. "I know it's a rarity, but can I ask you for a little advice?"

            Sydney's mouth spread into an amused smile. Her lips pursed together, as if she was containing a laugh. It was very much like Irina. She nodded for him to go ahead.

            "How would you . . . how should I . . ." He sighed, running both his hands through his hair. "I don't know how to act and still be honest with Ilene. Or the rest of my family, for that matter."

            Sydney cocked her head to the side. "You mean you don't think they'll really accept what you do."

            He sighed again and shrugged his shoulders. "It took you awhile."

            She nodded at that, conceding. "Maybe it's just a matter of time."

            "Maybe," he said. He stayed quiet after that, just staring at his hands. He could feel Sydney's eyes on him, probing him.

            "You're worried about your family."

            He nodded.

            "I can ignore my past, but people like Strachen will always be there," Sark said. "How can I protect them, without showing who I am?"

            Sydney nodded, understanding the predicament.

            "I don't know," she admitted. She scooted forward and leaned towards him. She placed her hands on his shoulders, rubbing them as she looked into his eyes. "But you'll be all right."

            Sark leaned forward, bringing a hand up to caress her face. His fingers wandered over her lips, and down her neck. He moved in, kissing her lightly.

            He shifted his body towards her and let his hands slide over her shoulders and to her back. He brought her closer, hugging her into him as he kissed her again, harder. Their lips wandered over each other's mouths, nibbling and pressing together with more passion. 

            Sydney pulled back slowly, opening her eyes to look into his blue ones. Her hand trailed down over his chest. The warmth and chill that it triggered collided with each other, making him shudder.

            "Promise me something," he whispered. She nodded. "When I have my family safe again, promise me we'll think of something. Something better than being apart."

            She smiled. "I promise."

            He kissed her again, capturing her head between his hands. 

            "Good," he whispered when he pulled back. "Because being without you is one of the worse tortures to endure."

            Wakefulness set in at 6 o'clock the next morning. Sark attributed it to anxiety for the forthcoming op.

            He changed into some sweat pants and a t-shirt. He examined his hand as he limped downstairs. His leg felt better. It was time to test it out.

            There was an atrium of sorts, just off of some studies. The room wasn't open to the outside, but the glass roof and exterior wall let in a dawning light. Judging by the remaining darkness, though, it was going to be another overcast day.

            The room was open, devoid of furniture. Instead of ornate rugs, there were lightly padded mats on the floor. Sark stood in the center of the room, and reached his hands above his head.

            He leaned to each side, stretching. A deep breath preceded a moment of relaxation. He lifted his right leg off of the floor, standing straight and fully on his left leg. It ached, but Sark ignored it. With another deep breath, Sark started a little freestyle.

            Off of his left leg, he took a step forward and jumped in the air. He switched legs mid-air, kicking high with the left. He landed awkwardly, but didn't stop. He leapt forward with a side hop, and lashed out at an imaginary foe. He spun on one heel, turning his body to kick again with one foot.

            He blocked hits, raising an arm above his head. He alternated the defending arms, and in between kicked out in front of him.

            Punches came next. Forward, forward, cross, cross, uppercut, jab, uppercut, jab. He did combinations, of punches and mixed with kicks. His limbs swung in the air, swishing as his offensive connected with the enemies he faced in his mind.

            Suddenly he stopped. His chest expanded and contracted quickly, but he ignored that along with the pain in his leg. He dropped to the floor, and started pushups.

            He lowered his body to the floor, just centimeters above the mats. He pushed his body up again, slowly but evenly. His pace didn't speed up or slow down as he continued for several minutes.

            Lactic acid burned in his arms and in his abdomen. The breaking point was coming.

            With a gasp, he let go and rolled onto his back on the floor. He waited thirty seconds, and then arched his back as he twisted his arms and pushed himself up on all fours. His chest faced the ceiling as he held himself in this awkward arch. His head hung upside down, watching the outside through the glass. He saw his reflection.

            And he saw another reflection. Sark let his limbs buckle, and fell on his back. He suppressed a groan, and sat up to face the onlooker.

            "That can't be good for your leg, Julian."

            He smiled briefly. "Ilene. You're up early." She nodded as she ran a hand through her long red hair. It fell below her shoulders, in wavy strands. She folded her arms and shuddered.

            "It's cold," she commented. "Do you always work out?"

            Sark got to his feet a little too quickly, and stumbled with his leg. Ilene started to him on instinct, but stopped herself.

            "I used to, everyday. Now it just depends," he answered. He stretched his legs, spreading them out in opposite directions and leaning heavily toward his left leg. He bit down on his lip.

            "You're pushing yourself," Ilene observed aloud. "Why?"

            Sark let out a breath. "I've gotten weak."

            "Don't."

            It was simple and straightforward, and definitely stronger in tone than he'd ever heard from his sister.

            "Don't what?" he asked, coming up from his stretch. 

            "Don't patronize me," Ilene said, her teeth clenched. "Don't pretend that you have to be this ice-cold wall of a person. That's not who you are."

            He froze, noticing the intensity in her eyes. Her stare was relentless, until he suddenly turned away from her.

            "You thought differently yesterday," he said. "I'm a cold machine, remember?"

            "If you were, you wouldn't care what I think," Ilene said. He turned back around to face her. He didn't expect that from her.

            "You're smarter than I give you credit for," he said. Ilene rolled her eyes.

            "Gee, thanks, Julian."

            He laughed and felt tension seep away from him. Silence settled between the siblings for a moment.

            "Look," Ilene started, "I know you've done some bad things. But I also know that's not everything. Tell me about the good."

            Sark groaned and ran a hand through his damp hair.

            "Ilene, there really isn't any good that I've done. Terrorist, remember?" He turned his back on her again, hearing her sigh in response.

            "I want to hear your side of the story." Sark shot her a look over his shoulder. "Or, I want to understand. To hear the truth about you, and what you've been through."

            A light was coming on in his head. "This is presumptuous, but are you forgiving me?" Sark asked. Ilene smiled at that, and he continued. "I'll warn you, the truth is bloody, at best."

            "Julian," she said, "You've dodged this long enough. I want to know about my brother, about who you are."

            He took a second to think of an answer, but realized how complex everything was. 

            "I'll be honest with you," Sark said. "I'm caught between two lives. I'm not sure who I am. But I know who I have to be at given times."

            Something in that statement made her think. Sark watched as the familiar mixture of fear and horror came over her face. She tried to wash it away with stubborn acceptance.

            "So this workout thing, pushing yourself when you're injured . . . is that Sark, or Julian?" She waited for the answer, but knew it already. And with that knowledge, the first piece of the puzzle that was her brother fell into place.

            Sark knew his silence was answer enough. Without looking at his sister, Sark left the atrium and went up for a shower. 

            Sydney was coming out of her room as Sark came up the stairs.

            "Does no one sleep in around here?" he mused aloud, despite his mood. Sydney flashed him her version of the smirk.

            "Apparently not. How's your leg?" she asked.

            Sark tried to not show any limp. "Better, thank you."

            "And how are you?"

            He groaned at that. She heard him and shot him a look.

            "I apologize; it's nothing to do with you, per se," Sark said quickly. 

            "Oh really?" she questioned. She tucked a strand of her brown hair behind her right ear, then folded her arms as she waited for an answer.

            "Every time I talk to one of your sex, I am left exhausted," Sark said. "With you, your mother and my sister, I scarcely have a moment free from emotional stress."

            The blunt sensitivity of his admission hit him, and before he could take anything back, Sydney was laughing.

            He sighed loudly as Sydney started to clutch her stomach from the laughter. He moved on to his room.

            "I'm taking a shower," he said before disappearing inside. He could still hear Sydney laugh as he shut the door.

            It was only 7 a.m. and he was already exhausted.

            He shut himself in his room and studied the plans to the vault. The mission specs list grew but the mission itself wasn't impossible. He grabbed at his hair as he ran a hand through it.

            Sark stood up, stretching his back and cracking his neck. 

            Someone knocked at his door. Sark quickly rolled up the plans and hid them. He yelled 'come in' as he closed the screen on his laptop.

            Ilene poked her head in. 

            "Um," she started with some nervousness, "I have some lunch, if you want it." Sark smiled and waved her in. She brought in a large tray, with sandwiches and fruit and a bottle of sparkling cider. He tried not to groan at that.

            She put the tray next to his computer and turned to leave.

            "Aren't you eating too?" Sark asked. Ilene stopped her retreat and faced her brother. "Please, join me."

            She nodded and sat at the table. Sark opened the bottle of cider as she tentatively went for a sandwich. Silence rested between them as she munched on the sandwich and as Sark drank a whole glass of cider.

            Ilene ventured forward first.

            "I have to admit, I find the idea of being two people . . . morbidly fascinating," she said. Sark furrowed his brow at the choice of words.

            "Morbidly fascinating?"

            Ilene sighed. "I know you as Julian. I call you Julian. But Sydney and the other woman . . . they call you Sark." She looked at him pointedly.

            "I'm sorry; am I supposed to have an answer for that?" he questioned.

            Ilene shot him a look, her blue eyes glaring at him. "I know who Julian is. Who is Sark?"

            It was Sark's turn to sigh. "Ilene, I've told you this—"

            "You've labeled yourself. I want to know what's happened. Tell me specific stories, how you met Sydney, about Burma, anything!"

            She was frustrated, but intrigued. He wasn't thrilled at the idea of telling her the details of his sins, but she wanted to know. _Or so she claims._

            "I met Sydney while on an assignment. I was trying to buy something from a reluctant source. Sydney was spying on the transaction," Sark said. Ilene looked confused.

            "Spying?"

            "She didn't tell you?" Sark asked. He thought that detail would have come up sometime in their previous conversation.

            Ilene shrugged. "I knew she worked for a government. I guess it makes sense, since she's been around you."

            Sark nodded. "She works for the CIA. We work for opposite sides, so to speak. But she's nothing like me. She's . . . selfless."

            He stared into his sparkling cider as he said that. 

            "We almost always worked against each other. Trying to beat each other to something, some mission or other," Sark said. "We fought occasionally. And I started to admire her capabilities."

            "Her capabilities?" Ilene repeated. The skepticism in her voice was clear, not in questioning Sydney, but Sark's admission.

            He conceded. "Yes, at first, but soon I just admired her. We were still enemies in Burma. That was just a couple of weeks before I saw you and everyone else in Ireland." 

            "Sydney told me a little of what happened in Burma," Ilene said quietly. Sark smiled at how timid she was about the memory.

            "Burma, yes," he said. He forced himself to sound nonchalant as he spoke. "The group that kidnapped you caught me and Sydney. At the time, Sydney and I were in the middle of a confrontation. They took us both to Burma."

            "Why did they want you?"

            Sark took a deep breath. "Information. They knew I worked for Irina, and wanted information to defeat her."

            "Irina . . . the woman here?" Ilene clarified. Sark nodded. "But you didn't tell them, did you?"

            Sark's smile was soft, sad. "No, I didn't."

            "The scars?" she asked, leaving the blanks of the story untouched.

            Sark nodded. "In this business, you do anything to get information. Most of the time, it's not pleasant."

            She stood and started to pace around the room. The sandwich was left on the table, as if she suddenly lost her appetite. 

            "What did they do to you?" The question came as a whisper, but that didn't lessen the effect on Sark. He didn't know why she would want to know the particulars.

            "Ilene," he started, "it doesn't really matter. I don't—"

            "I want to know, Julian," she said. She looked at the floor. "I need to, to understand what you've been through." He didn't say anything. "Sydney said they tortured you."

            He sighed again. He was almost annoyed at her prompting him, but even more that she was serious about this. _She wants to know everything, even if it makes her ill_.

            "Yes, they tortured me. I was beaten a few times, cut up." The images came back to him as he relayed them to his sister. He stood and moved to the window. He remembered the torture, the cuts, the cold from the water, the ice. His lungs heaved at the memory of being starved for air. 

            "And you never gave them the information they wanted?" Ilene asked.

            Sark shrugged. "It was only partially about the information. They wanted to beat someone."

            "Why not Sydney?" Ilene asked. Sark shot her a fierce look, to which Ilene raised an apologizing hand. "I'm not wishing it on her. But you protected her."

            Sark nodded. "I guess, to an extent. I also ticked off the Hierarchy enough that I was an easy target." He paused, and turned to face her. "Why do you want to know all this? It's hardly a pretty picture," he said.

            Ilene glanced at the ground and back up at him. "I didn't know at first. You were willing to protect her, and to protect me." She took a deep breath. "I was so happy to see you on that boat. And I was terrified of you when I saw you kill those men."

            "Ilene—" he started.

            "Wait, let me finish," she said. "But I understand something. You claim your life over the past years was just so you could get what you wanted. Yet you really saved me. They beat you up on the boat. You got shot too." A tear glimmered in her eyes. "I guess I realize you would have gone through Burma, or worse, to protect me too."

            It was something he should have been somewhat proud of. He couldn't help but lower his head though. Maybe it was the Sark in him; he'd been caught in a selfless truth.

            Ilene was starting to forgive him, much sooner than he ever expected. But he knew she didn't realize that things weren't over. Sark couldn't just be banished so Julian could take over.

            "There's something you need to understand, Ilene," he started. He started pacing, his limp hindering him but yet he was unwilling to stop. "I can't just stop being who I am. Whether Julian or Sark, I have to deal with the life I created for myself."

            She started to shake her head.

            "It's your past. Leave it there."

            "No," Sark said immediately. "Pasts have repercussions. And mine affects you and every person that I care about. You've seen that firsthand. Your kidnappers aren't the only ones who will realize I'm alive."

            "He's right," came a voice from the doorway. Sark whipped his head around to see Irina. "Sorry to interrupt."

            "What's wrong?" Sark asked. Irina didn't look upset or anything, but Sark knew she wouldn't interrupt otherwise.

            "You should go soon." She looked pointedly at Sark, and he nodded.

            "Yes." He faced Ilene. "We're going to Los Angeles with Sydney. You'll stay with her while I look for Mom, Dad and Calvin," he said. She nodded, glancing between employer and former employee.

            "I'll get ready to go."


	7. Playing Copperfield

Playing Copperfield

            Sark flew with Ilene to Los Angeles. Sydney was already a flight ahead of them, and Irina wisely went to Salt Lake City to wait for him near the Kennecott mine.

            Ilene was fidgeting. She scratched at her hands and rubbed them together.

            "What is it, Ilene?" he asked, glancing over to her as he drove to Sydney's. Ilene looked to her brother, caught by surprise in her nervousness.

            "You're going to find them, right?" she asked. 

            "Of course," Sark answered, knowing she meant their family. 

            "Do you think," she started, but stopped herself for a moment. "Do you think they're safe?"

            Her question was an interesting one. She asked what he himself wouldn't allow himself to think. That his family could be in danger was something that poked at his mind relentlessly, but without recognition. Irina said they left their guard, fearing him. _What if someone else has them now?_

_            Strachen._ A bitter taste rose in his mouth just at the man's name.

            "I don't know," he admitted. "But we'll find them."

            "Where are you going to start?" 

            Sark hadn't thought that through, knowing he was headed to Salt Lake after this. The lying was necessary, he told himself. Ilene didn't need to know, and shouldn't know, what danger he was going to. The danger wouldn't bother her so much as her brother going back to an old life.

            He sighed, drawing a look from his sister.

            "I'll figure it out. Don't worry."

            Sydney waited for them as they pulled up in the cover of darkness. She glanced around them before nodding at Sark to get out.

            "I need to go soon," Sark said to her. She smiled understandingly, but Sark noticed the sadness in her eyes.

            "Ilene, come on in," Sydney said. Ilene ventured forward, but paused to turn to her brother.

            "Be careful, Julian." He didn't miss the emphasis on his given name, but let it go. Ilene hugged him suddenly, tightly. Sark bit his lip and hugged his sister back.

            "I'll be all right."

            Her eyes were misty, but she fought to stay strong. Sark smiled at her, then glanced at Sydney. She gave him a reassuring nod that told him Ilene was in safe hands. He knew it; two women he cared for greatly would be all right.

            Now he had to go help another, to keep Sydney safe.

            Irina waited for him a fair distance from the Kennecott mine. Her vehicle was cloaked in the darkness. The nearest city's lights shown miles away; they were virtually alone in this desert. 

            Sark glanced at his watch. It was 1 a.m. He had flown directly to Salt Lake from LAX, changed into tactical gear, and drove to the mine. Irina had all the gear they would need.

            "Ready?" she asked him in her alluring accent. Sark smirked at her in response. "Can your body handle this?" Her eyes flickered to his left leg.

            He glared at her questions. "Let's go."

            The mine was dirt all around, except for a paved, narrow road that winded down the mine. The road circled, seemingly endless in depth. 

            Sark watched a mindless security guard patrol by them. He nodded at Irina, and they both scurried to the descending road. They walked silently but quickly. Ropes and bags of equipment hung from their shoulders. Guns waited in their hands.

            He didn't expect any more guards until they got to the vault. Too many guards drew too much attention, something that on the surface the US government avoided well. 

            The darkness of the mine was astounding. The black was thick, even almost physical. The further he and Irina descended, the thicker and wetter the air got. Dirt . . . that clay and dust smell—it stank from the walls and floor.

            Sark reached into one pocket for a gas grenade as they reached the bottom. He dared himself to look up, and saw a few stars, looking more like glitter than anything else. The dark walls around them loomed as giants. Sark looked away, and focused on the task at hand.

            The vault was down a series of tunnels. Like everything else in the mine, the tunnels winded around. The maze-like quality challenged Sark's memory. He'd studied the plans to the mine and vault, and struggled now to remember with crystal-like accuracy. 

            Irina followed him wordlessly.

            Until they both heard laughter ahead of them. They split up, melding with shadows of opposite walls in the tunnel. _We must be close._

            Sark crept forward and rounded a corner until he saw the source. Three guards stood chatting around a well-lit foyer, taking a break from guarding national secrets that influenced the world's safety.

            _They probably don't know that much_, Sark thought, giving the idiots some leniency. _Besides, this makes it easier for you_.

            He saw the cameras from the shadows, and gestured to them. Irina dug in a bag, and produced a small black device that looked more like a television remote than a surveillance transmission scrambler. Sark eyed the cameras as each one's red indicator light went off, signaling a stop in the feed.

            Sark released the pin of the gas grenade and chucked it down the tunnel. The gas dispersed immediately. One by one the guards went down, almost before they could react to the grenade. 

            Irina and Sark hung back, watching until the gas was gone and harmless. The vault glowed in the hazy foyer. Blue lights cast an eerie effect on the target. Sark swallowed.

            "Quickly," Irina said, moving forward. Sark pulled out another device, this one larger and more complicated. He glanced at a keypad on the wall. It activated an iron gate that separated access to the vault. The display screen on the device lit up when Sark wired it to the vault keypad. 

            It started to work immediately. 

            Numbers flashed on the display as the device broke through passwords and narrowed down the alphanumeric code. Sark glanced at his watch.

            A loud buzzing sound almost made Sark drop the descrambler, but he realized the gate was rising.

            _One obstacle down._Irina rushed forward, ducking under the gate and moving for the vault's access area.

            She suddenly stopped short.

            "Lasers," she called over her shoulder. Sark froze. _That wasn't on the plans_. Sure enough, though, a thin blue beam of light shown just above the floor. Sark's eyes moved from the floor on up, and saw a succession of laser beams bursting intermittently from the walls. Irina was inches from the lasers.

            "Alarm triggers," Sark mumbled. "If we break through the lasers, it'll quicken the response from the airbase." Already the nearby government airbase would send someone to investigate the break in the camera feed. But if the lasers were triggered, a whole tactical unit would be sent, and the NSC would no longer think of the cameras as a mere malfunction. 

            "If only we'd brought large mirrors," Irina muttered to herself. Sark smirked at that and began digging in his bag. It caught her attention, and he could feel her eyes on him.

            "Forget the mirrors," he said. He pulled a fire blanket; it was metallic but paper-thin. It was also reflective.

            Irina stared at him incredulously. "It's too flimsy. And the beams shoot from both sides—you'd need two blankets."

            Sark reached into his bag and tossed another one to her. Then he draped himself in the blanket, crouching down and making sure it covered from his feet to his head.

            He stepped into the beams.

            With each step, he waited for the alarms, but heard none. All he heard was Irina's breathing and the blanket wrinkling around him. 

            As he stepped directly in front of the vault, he shed the metallic blanket and started on the next challenge.

            "Coming, Ms. Derevko?" he called over his shoulder. She glared at him but followed his lead.

            He heard the rustling of the blanket as she ventured forward. Sark fumbled with a tub of gel and some wires. The vault's access panel was incredible. Upon studying the plans, he knew there was no breaking into the system for a code, no conventional way to break in. Blowing the vault up was stupid, since it was in a mine, and drilling---well, Sark wasn't a driller. 

            Sark relied on something more sophisticated yet witty. He squeezed the tube of gel onto the panel. He smeared it into the cracks. The gel seeped into the system's circuitry. 

            The wires were some special metal that when connected to the gel, it cleverly shorted out the system and, with this particular vault, triggered a secondary override control. The wires and gel Sark didn't understand completely; after all, he was a spy, not a scientist. What mattered to him was the end result.

            The override system wasn't a free entrance; Irina stepped forward, a drill in hand. 

Sark raised an eyebrow at her as she confidently began drilling into the lock console. 

            "I thought you were a spy, not a thief," he said, goading her. She didn't even flicker a glance at him.

            "You should know by now that sometimes you have to be an effective thief to be the best spy."

            His smirk almost converted to a smile.

            The drill was relatively quiet. Sark watched metal shavings fall to the floor. 

            Irina pulled out a thin cable and fed it through the hole she created. The cable had a small camera at one end, and she watched the feed on a small monitor in her hand.

            Sark sighed and checked his watch.

            Irina glared at that, but smiled victoriously as they both heard metal rods slamming back. She gave him a sugar grin as he opened the vault door.

            "Nice job," he said reluctantly. 

            "Thank you." 

            _Enough with the egos,_ he thought. Sark walked into the vault.

            It was cool, no doubt to preserve the data and whatever else was inside. The floor was illuminated, a passive green light which glowed throughout the vault. Sark stepped around cautiously.

            It was large—the vault had rows of shelves. He paced around inside, looking at random numbers that organized the data.

            "A little guidance would be nice here," he muttered just loud enough for Irina to hear. 

            "Look for some circular storage device. Something maybe six inches wide," she said. "The catalog number will end in 89963."

            His eyes scanned over the vault. 

            "Here," he said. He reached for the data, contained in a metallic shell. It was heavy, heavier than any storage device he'd ever come into contact with. He saw his reflection in the device, even his cool blue eyes.

            Sark blinked, and turned to Irina, who was gathering her tools.

            "How do we destroy it?" he asked. Irina looked up indifferently, but raised her hands as if to catch the device.

            Sark tossed it to her. A wave a relief went through him. _Almost done._The deception for Sydney's best interests, and lying to his sister . . . it was almost over, and he could move on. Again.

            He ran a hand through his hair, sighing loudly. His leg twitched where the gunshot wound was still healing. He glanced down at it, rubbing it gently with his right hand.

            Suddenly a blunt blow to his head sent him to the ground. The forceful hit made him black out for a second. He looked up from the vault floor, only to see Irina running for the iron gate.

            All he could think was one word: _No!_


	8. Wrench in the Plans

Thanks to sallene for previewing this for me!

Wrench in the Plans

            Sark felt his bag being taken. He looked up and saw Irina with all the equipment. He stumbled to his feet, his hand clutching a moist spot on his head. He tried to follow Irina, catch up with her.

            She glanced over her shoulder as she ran through the laser grid and cleared the iron gate. Sark froze as the alarms went off, and as she triggered the iron gate to close behind her. 

            He made a desperate lunge for the gate, only to have his body hit up against it as it trapped him.

            His eyes were wide and his temper was rising and livid. 

            "What have you done?" he seethed. Irina smiled—but it wasn't victorious. Sark noted the sadness in her eyes, the regret. _What is going on?_

            "This is the only way we're all safe," she whispered, that regret more evident now.

            "You wanted the data for yourself," Sark said aloud. But Irina shook her head.

            "The data on this device is as much a threat to me as it is to Sydney. I want it to keep both Sydney and me safe. And I want you in US custody."

            Maybe it was the blow to the head, but the vault and tunnel just seemed to start spinning. Sark stumbled back, trying to catch himself from falling.

            "With Strachen free and still after you, both Sydney and I are in danger. From you," Irina said. "You have attachments, which have been exploited. But Strachen won't do anything to you while you're—"

            "In a nice glass cell?!" Sark clenched his teeth. He could feel his chest heaving, no doubt from the anger as well as the pain shooting in his head. "What about my family?"

            Irina's sad smile faltered. "They're fine. Living peacefully in a remote part of England." She noticed Sark's look—the deception was so perfect but painful for him. "I don't expect you to understand. But this is as much for me as it is for Sydney. And for you."

            "Pardon me if I don't thank you for hiding my family from me and leaving me for the authorities."

            She smirked at that, her eyes narrowing.

            "Goodbye, Julian." She raised one arm, and Sark felt his heart stop momentarily when he realized what was in her hand.

            It was the surveillance scrambler. With one click of the device, the cameras were reactivated. Sark saw the red lights come back on.

            "They know I'm alive," he muttered to the cameras. He looked back at Irina, accusations shooting from his eyes.

            But she was gone, quickly escaping while he was trapped like a rat.

            Sark stepped back, stunned. He backed against the vault door, and just let his body slide to the ground. 

            _Lies_. He thought he was the only one lying, to Sydney and to Ilene. _Not that it matters_. Sydney would know the truth, as well as the CIA—he came for the data, and now sat waiting for capture.

            Sark thought of Sydney. Could she forgive him for this latest deception? She was so ready to love him, to be with him. _But now I've screwed it up. _He wouldn't see her again, not while he was free anyway. _She'll most likely see me behind a glass partition at that __Joint__Task__Force__Center__._

            He ran a hand through his hair. His finger wandered over the matting blood at the back of his head.

            _Ilene_. Would she be all right? Sydney wouldn't let the CIA know about her. _Ilene will be safe._

_            And my family too._ He knew Irina wouldn't hurt them, although he was outraged that she knew where they were the whole time. _At least Strachen doesn't have them._ He sighed.

            _But they'll be left wondering what happened to me, and Ilene._ He hoped Sydney would take Ilene back to them. And he dreaded what they all would think of him then.

            Sark snapped his attention to his surroundings as he heard several pairs of footsteps running through the tunnels, no doubt coming for him. He sighed and got to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall.

            They started to emerge from the darkness, and were dressed predictably in dark tactical gear. Their guns, no doubt government-issue, were aimed at him. The soldiers froze, as if they recognized him.

            Sark smirked at that, somewhat proudly. _ My reputation precedes me._ One of the soldiers spoke into a radio headset.

            "We have Sark," he said, while motioning for his comrades to open the gate. Sark's brow furrowed as he saw them hook up a descrambler to the iron gate's code panel.

            _Why are they breaking in? Don't they have the code?_ The smirk slowly disappeared.

            "Yes, Mr. Strachen," he heard the soldier say into the radio, "we'll bring Sark back."

            Sark backed up from the iron gate, moving to the vault slowly. _No. _

_            No._

_            No._

            The iron gate creaked loudly, opening and allowing the soldiers to spill towards Sark like a wave of water. The click and rattle of weapons being handled caught Sark's attention for some reason. 

            The guns were aimed at him, circling him as the soldiers prepared to take him. Sark stopped in his tracks. He was surrounded, and everyone knew it.

            There was no escape, not with these odds and weaponless.

            Sark bit his lip and raised his arms ever so slightly in submission.

            "On the ground, Mr. Sark," said the leader. "Mr. Strachen would like to see you."

            He made himself shut down. The walls came up, and Sark was impenetrable. 

            The soldiers, or mercenaries more likely, handcuffed his hands behind his back. They jostled him out of the mine, but not before checking the vault for the data Irina now had. A helicopter waited for them on the surface, and everyone was gone before the NSC arrived.

            Sark sat straight, his back a board. He didn't look at any of his captors, but noticed how there were always three guns on him.

            He just sat, waiting for the inevitable.

            Helicopter, plane, boat . . . after several hours of travel, Sark and his escort landed on an island. It was dark, almost before sunrise. The island was tropical but Sark didn't know where he was. 

            The boat rocked as Sark stepped out of it awkwardly. His hands were still cuffed behind his back. The three-gun escort still threatened him. His heart beat quickened, but Sark maintained his impartial stony face.

            _Strachen__ is close. And alive._ He wanted to kick himself for not finishing the man's life before. He shook that thought off. 

            _Focus. It could just be a trick by the CIA._

            But if not, Irina's plan backfired.

            The path he walked on was old stones. A cool breeze ruffled the tall trees and brush. Ahead was a stately-looking building. It was four stories high, and made of white stone. It looked expensive, luxurious.

            The inside supported that. The lavish décor was distracting. Gold, silver, marble, fine rugs and vases . . . Sark let his eyes wander over it all.

            His eyes settled on an old man, hunched over as he sat on an oversized couch. The man wheezed, breathing cautiously through some medical device. 

            Strachen.

            "Mr. Sark," he began between forceful breaths. "So good to see you again."

            _Doubt it_.

            "Pardon me if I don't share the sentiment," Sark said. "I should have pressed harder with that knife last time."

            Strachen started to smile, but coughed suddenly. The gurgling and forcefulness of it made Sark's stomach lurch. Even so, he smirked at the damage he'd done.

            "How is your sister, Mr. Sark?"

            The smirk froze.

            "And Miss Bristow? I believe you two had a connection of sorts," Strachen said. "And Irina Derevko—where is she now a days?"

            Sark shot him a look. _Like I would tell you any of that._

            "I believe we've been over these issues before, and you know the outcome," Sark challenged.

            Strachen just grinned, his yellowing teeth showing as he wheezed through his mouth.

            "Yes," he said. "But to be honest with you, Mr. Sark, I have lost interest in what you have to offer."

            Sark readied himself for a bullet, but it didn't come.

            "I would rather just make you—" Strachen coughed again, grasping his throat as he regained control. "—make you _suffer_."

            Hits came instantaneously. Sark yelped as a guard swung hard at his face. The strength behind the hit spun Sark around and made him fall to the marble floor. Another guard kicked him in the side, drawing forced gasps of breath out of him.

            The enthusiasm of his tormentors was remarkable, especially for hired guns. Pain spread through his body, but instinctively Sark knew this was nothing compared to what was to come.


	9. Survival

Survival

            What was it with Strachen and water? Between the boats and tortures involving water, Sark wondered what the man's obsession was all about.

            He voiced that to Strachen. "You seem to have an otherworldly regard for water," Sark said.

            "And you seem to not like it, which is what brings us here," Strachen said. He motioned in front of him, to a water tank in the basement. Sark's body was sore and limp from his welcoming party, but he focused on the liquid.

            It was more of a pit than anything, but it was filled with water. Strachen motioned to a guard, who moved to a panel on the wall. He hit a button, and suddenly Sark heard metal screeching.

            He looked up to see a metal cage being lowered from the ceiling.

            _You've got to be joking_, he thought to himself. The guards pushed Sark toward the cage as it descended. The cage was submerged in the water, and before Sark could object, the guards started to lift him up.

            He thrashed about like a fish, but the guards weren't affected. They dropped him in the cage through its top door.

            His body fell through the water, and hit at the bottom of the cage. Sark's hands were still bound behind him, but pushed off the bottom with his feet, heading for the surface.

            No room was left above the water, and the cage's door was firmly shut and locked. Sark started to panic. His lungs were starting to burn. He kicked in the water, driving his body to the top door of the cage. It was desperation, nothing more nor less.

            The water started to fill his mouth. He tried to spit it out, refuse the liquid, but instead he started to gulp it. His mind started going blank, and Sark found it difficult to even move. 

            His body sank to the bottom of the cage.  
  
  


            He felt the air on his body, almost cold air. It stung him. That's when it registered that the air was available.

            Sark choked on the first breath. The water started to come up, and he fought to get it out of his lungs and take in air at the same time.

            Coughs racked his body. The force of his chest expanding and collapsing was added pain. The fitful coughs lasted several minutes.

            "Is that the first time you have drowned?" came an elated but rapsy voice. Sark didn't bother to open his eyes, but just coughed some more.

            "I would have thought you could hold your breath longer after Burma," Strachen said. Sark slowly rolled to one side, just resting before he dared look. When he opened his eyes, he saw the cage, and thus his body, was suspended in the air, near the ceiling. The water pit waited twenty feet below.

            "What do you want?"

            It came out as a whisper, and the meekness of it startled Sark. But part of him was ready to negotiate, to dispense with this unpleasantness.

            Strachen didn't answer, but just grinned at the helpless spy for a moment. Then he hit the button to lower the cage. The water taunted Sark, coming closer and closer. Sark rolled up to his knees. He got to his feet, stumbling and leaning against the bars. His hands grasped them, keeping him upright.

            His feet and the bottom of the cage met the water. That panic started to rise again. Sark shot a glare at Strachen. He looked up at the top of the cage, which was only six inches above his height. His body rose in the water to the top of the cage as the water continued to flood in.

            Suddenly the cage lurched to a stop, leaving only three inches of air accessible. Sark sucked in the air, his lips pointed skyward like a fish trying to catch a fly. 

  
  
            "I'll leave you to ready yourself for tomorrow," Strachen said. Sark held back a shudder. "Sweet dreams, Mr. Sark."

            With that, the man and his entourage left, leaving Sark with little space for air. Sark tried to calm himself and just focus on keeping his head above water.

            _I'm just going to soak here all night?_ What was the point? Sark shifted his hold on the bars, and in so doing, slipped beneath the water. He propelled himself to the guarded surface, somewhat panicking to get to the air.

            _That's the point_, Sark thought. _I won't be able to sleep, or rest at all if I'm struggling to stay above the water and get air._

            This technique was a new take on sleep deprivation.

            _Joy._

            "Can you hear me?" came a soft, feminine voice. Sark's eyes darted around to find the source.

            At the edge of the pit stood a slender islander. She had creamy chocolate skin, and her dark hair hung in a long ponytail.  

            "Are you all right?" she asked quietly. Sark watched her amber eyes dart around, as if someone may happen upon them any moment.

            _A sympathizer._

            "I've been better," Sark said, matching her soft tone. "Who are you?" 

            She wore a simple uniform, almost like a maid. She ran a hand over the skirt without meeting his eyes.

            "I'm part of the house staff," she answered. Sark shook his head.

            "I meant, what's your name?" He didn't feel bad about his tone; it was inviting, purposely sensitive to entice her to warm up to him.

            "Tenya," she said. "Mr. Strachen says you're strong—a formidable opponent."

            Sark froze. _How much does she know about Strachen?_ "He told you about me?"

Tenya shook her head.

            "He doesn't address me," she said. Then she charged ahead, as if avoiding that issue. "You should be flattered that Mr. Strachen thinks so much of you," she said. 

            "I'm not flattered by anything to do with Strachen. He's caused me enough pain," Sark said. A bit of water seeped into his mouth, and suddenly Sark was coughing. His grip on the cage bars gave a bit, and suddenly the water covered him completely.

            He kicked up to the top again, grabbing onto the bars for his life. His body felt weak still; the soreness from his earlier beating still remained.

            A loud creaking filled the air, and the cage rose a bit. Sark looked to the control panel, where Tenya stood, raising the cage with a push of a button. Worry spread over her face, but she seemed relieved as Sark got enough air. She quickly let go of the button that made the cage ascend. She looked around her, making sure no one saw what she did.

            "I must go," she said, and quickly turned to leave.

            "Wait!" Sark yelled as quietly as possible, for her benefit.

            She just shook her head, and kept going.


	10. The Ally

The Ally, part one

            The next day was one Sark wanted to forget. Even thinking about the events made him hurt. 

            It hurt to remember. To breathe. To even picture a better place, or an escape. To see Sydney in his mind.

            So he held onto the top bars of his cage, his grip tight to secure his life above the water. Sark let his body just float and marinade in the water, with some hope that it might do his wounds some good.

            He fell asleep, in a vain and unconscious attempt at relief. Instead he found himself choking on the water, and tightening his grip on the bars over his head.

            His clothing was torn, tattered. The shreds of his tactical gear covered little of him, not that he was embarrassed by that. It was more inconvenience, when he was out of the water and trying to stay warm.

            _Where is __Sydney__?_ Surely the surveillance tapes from the vault revealed he was there. While the CIA knew also, he knew Sydney wouldn't just leave him, not in Strachen's clutches. 

            But it had been days now.

            _No, it hasn't._ What, two, three days? _That's it?_ Sark shook his head, and the water sloshed around him.

            "Are you all right?"

            Sark craned his head to look up. Tenya stood there, her hands clasped in front of her tightly. He didn't answer. 

            Tenya ventured to the cage's controls, raising it a full foot. Then she stepped back quickly, resuming her previous position. Sark nodded to her what gratitude he could show.

            "Why does Mr. Strachen hate you?" was the next question. The curiosity of it, combined with her voice . . . odd, yet sweet. It had a kindness, and melodiousness that drew Sark's eyes to Tenya's. She waited for an answer, her hands still clasped in front of her.

            "Several reasons, I'm sure," Sark said. He lifted himself up a bit with the bars, and let his feet touch the bottom of it. He barely stood lately, and it felt strangely good.

            "Is it because you're a spy?" There was no timidity or fear in that guess, and Sark couldn't help but think it funny.

            "Spy?" Maybe 'spy' was the best combination of what he was. He'd started out as just an over-ambitious kid with a knack for danger and darkness. But 'spy' seemed to imply some purpose or ideology. What was his?

            _The only thing that matters is getting back to my life._ His family. That normal routine that seemed boring at first. But most important, Sydney.

            "Isn't that what you are?" Tenya said. Sark turned around in his little space. He splashed some water on his face, and it stung a gash in his cheek.

            "Not anymore. Consider me retired," he said with a smile. 

            She bowed her head, studying the marble floor.

            "You don't like it?" she asked. "Because of the danger, the pain?" Her docile eyes peered down at him.

            Sark shrugged, despite the sharp shot of pain it sent through his shoulders. 

            "Because it's not who I am anymore." _I'm Julian, not __Sark__._

_            You'll always be __Sark__._

            Tenya didn't say anything for a minute. Sark watched her think over what he said. Was it just the lack of sleep or did she seem to be taking to him? Sark shook that thought away. _Using her would be something __Sark__ would do. Exploiting her . . . you can't do that._

            _But if it gets you back to __Sydney__, isn't that worth it?_ He sighed aloud, trying to silence this endless and resurfacing debate within him.

            "You are better than him." It was merely a whisper but the meaning shouted at Sark. _She realizes Strachen is evil._ She took three steps toward the water pit, each one painfully slow as she debated within herself.

            _Please. Help me_. He willed it, wanted to shout it, but couldn't break what she was coming close to deciding on her own.

            Her fingers touched the control panel. She smiled at Sark and was about to raise the cage, when voices floated down the hallway.

            Tenya dropped the controls, gasping at the approaching interruption. She threw a glance at Sark, with some sort of apology within it. 

            "Wait!" Sark pleaded. "Tenya, please!" She shook her head.

            "I can't, not now," she said. She scurried off quickly, and several seconds later Strachen appeared by the controls.

            Sark held back a groan. _Too soon._

            "Mr. Sark," the old man wheezed, "How does a boat ride sound?"  
  
  
            _Strachen has a psychotic regard for water and boats._ This boat, though, was different from the normal choice. It was an airboat, sitting mere inches in the water. Sark noted its bare-bones appearance in the sparse light from a dock lamp. It wasn't the typical luxury yacht, but just transportation.

            _Why an airboat?_ The ocean waters were deep enough. Sark's stomach churned as he tried to guess the next ordeal.

            The moon barely showed between gray clouds. The resulting muffled light was as revealing as a flashlight with no batteries. Sark hoped the boat driver could see well enough.

            The usual escorting guards threw Sark to the boat's floor. He grimaced at the impact but hid the pain behind a smirk.

            "Midnight sail? That's romantic, Strachen, but you're not my type," Sark said. He tried to sit up, bracing himself with bound hands. Strachen coughed out a laugh.

            "Perhaps a dip in the water then, Mr. Sark?" the man said, indulging Sark's mockery. The guards grabbed Sark's feet and started to wrap thick rope around it. The rope was tied to a water skiing handle. Sark eyed the handle.

            "I confess, I'm not much of a skier. But give me a life-jacket, and I'll try my best." Sark grinned at his own request, but hoped his fear didn't show through. _This could be very unpleasant._

            Strachen just shook his head. The guards lifted Sark and tossed him in the water. The salty water stung at his wounds and eyes, but he made himself kick as best he could to the surface. His head reached air, and he tried to see ahead.

            The airboat started, and speed seemed to be its goal. Sark squinted his eyes. The seawater blown from the airboat's fans pelted him. As the speed increased, Sark's feet led the way, behind the boat. His upper body was dragged, and though the speed allowed his body to skip on top of the water, it also grazed him roughly.

            _Airboat_. _Shallow water. Find the point of this, quickly!_

            And suddenly, he knew why Strachen wanted this midnight excursion.

_            Coral._

            It ripped into Sark's back as the boat towed him quickly over shallow waters. Sark yelled, but his mouth filled with sea water. He coughed violently, just as his body ran across another shallow patch of coral.

            The calcified skeletons cut into his back again, then into his arms. The salty sting only intensified with the new exposed flesh.

            _Think!!_ He couldn't just let himself get cut into little pieces, bit by bit from the coral. 

             The airboat turned around to repeat its path. It was a faster boat than any motorboat. The turn was instantaneous; it didn't even slow the boat. In the process, Sark was rolled onto his stomach, and soon he was starving for air again as he was dragged face-down.

            The coral came again. Sark could almost hear his flesh tearing. It coincided with searing pain, more like a flash of heat from intense stinging on his chest. 

            The boat stopped, but Sark really didn't focus on that. His body started sinking again, and he tried to kick around to keep his head above the water. But any movement made him scream.

            Loudly.

            So he sank, but he could feel his body moving still. The guards were pulling him in, towards the boat. Sark was grateful the water muffled his screaming. As he finally came to air, he coughed and took a deep breath.

            _Compartmentalize._

_            Compartmentalize!_

            As the guards pulled him onto the boat, he just screamed.  
  
  
            He knew it was a memory, but he didn't remember this ever happening. _Ilene._

_            They were swimming, when they were younger. Calvin was pouting by the side of the pool, upset that he couldn't jump in the water yet. Ilene, however, was enjoying the feel of the chlorine. She stood in the shallow part of the pool._

_            She was less than 4 feet tall, just a young thing with lots of energy. Julian was taller, and swam around the 5-foot depth of the pool as if he were a dolphin. He'd recently seen one on television, and was transfixed by it._

_            He wasn't paying attention to Ilene. Julian was too busy breaching and diving like the marine animal he wish he were. When he stopped, he realized Calvin was crying._

_            The younger brother pointed to the water, to the deep end beyond where Julian was._

_            He looked, and felt his breath stop momentarily._

_            Ilene was at the bottom of the pool. Little bubbles of air inched their way to the surface._

_            Julian dove in after her, not even hesitating to think of the danger. He'd never been beyond the 5-foot depth of the pool. The pool went as deep as 10 feet._

_            He realized that as he pushed himself further and further into the water. His lungs burned, his ears popped, and his body kept rising away from Ilene, but he pulled harder at the water._

_            Ilene's eyes were closed. Julian finally reached her, but he was nearly helpless. His legs felt limp, and water started to fill his nose and mouth. _

_            He touched Ilene, grabbed her wrist. And then he pushed off the pool floor, while the last bubble of air raced him to the surface._

_            His lips came to air, but Ilene's weight and his own threatened to drag him back down. Julian kicked furiously just to stay above the water. He knew he had to get Ilene out quickly. She wasn't breathing._

_            He looked around for Calvin, but he wasn't anywhere, nor could Julian hear his cries. For a moment, Julian thought he had fallen in. Julian kept kicking, and tried to swim to any side of the pool. But each kick was a millimeter of movement for him._

_            Fatigue wore quickly on him. Julian was losing, he knew. And Ilene was dying. He saw the water slip back over his head._

_            The sound of shouting was warped by the water, but the splash into the water next to him was unmistakable. Someone had come to help them._

_            Calvin was crying furiously, wailing even. He came up to Julian as he rested on the cement floor. His tears mixed with the beads of water falling off Julian's body._

_            Ilene was coughing, and that's when he sat up. She was alive! Once she started breathing regularly, she started crying also. Julian crawled over to her, and hugged her. Calvin waddled over to join them._

_            He'd almost drowned. Ilene almost died. _

_            And for some reason, they didn't swim often after that._

  
  
            Sark shook awake from the memory and found himself on a cold cement floor. He lay in the middle of a small rectangular cell. There was nothing else, other than a barred gate that reached from the floor to the ceiling.__

            He could see himself, younger, imagining what happened. And then he saw himself now, Sark, being dragged through the water.

            He shuddered, but that awakened pain throughout his body. His skin felt sticky, but not from the ocean. He looked at his body. It was naked, but Sark didn't care about that now. His legs were unscathed, because the boat carried them higher than his chest. But his chest and arms . . . they were riddled with cuts from the coral. Each cut was puffy, a swollen pink mess that no doubt screamed of infection. Sark swallowed.

_            Coral can infect_. That was the last thing he needed now, but he didn't have any control over that.

            He moved, bracing his arms against the floor so he could sit up. Sark yelped and recoiled quickly. 

            Strachen had outdone himself this time.


	11. The Ally, Part 2

The Ally, part two

_Previously:_

_He shuddered, but that awakened pain throughout his body. His skin felt sticky, but not from the ocean. He looked at his body and saw bloody streaks. __Sark__ was naked, but he didn't care about that now. His legs were unscathed, because the boat carried them higher than his chest. But his chest and arms . . . they were riddled with cuts from the coral. Each cut was puffy, a swollen red and pink mess that no doubt screamed of infection. __Sark__ swallowed._

_            Coral can infect. That was the last thing he needed now, but he didn't have any control over that._

_            He moved, bracing his arms against the floor so he could sit up. __Sark__ yelped and recoiled quickly. _

_            Strachen had outdone himself this time._

            He tried moving again, biting his lip hard as he sat up. He didn't let up until he tasted blood in his mouth.

            Sark glanced around the cell. On the other side of the gated door was some clothing. He held back a cry as he crawled to the bars. His fingers grazed the fabric, and he clutched it in his hand, bringing the clothing through the bars. It was simple—just gray everything. He cast aside the shirt, which looked like more pain than it was worth. But the rest he put on.

            Movement of any kind renewed the stinging of the cuts. _Why does coral sting so much? _Sark had never had a knife wound hurt like this. But then again, these weren't clean cuts from a blade. 

            "Those should be cleaned out." Sark jumped at the voice, looking up quickly to see Tenya, kneeling in front of the cell. In her hands was a ceramic, striped bowl, filled with water. A neat pile of cloth rested on the floor.

            "Are you offering to help?" Sark asked with a touch of incredulity. He focused his eyes on his wounds, and in so doing, brought her attention to them. He had no problem if the result was her guilt.

            The gate creaked open, and Tenya glanced both ways before moving into his cell. 

            "Coral wounds can fester and cause serious infections. The pain will only get worse if you don't take care of it now," she said expertly. She dipped one cloth into the water and wrung out the excess liquid. Sark sat still as she approached him and leaned into his chest.

            She padded at one of the cuts, and Sark yelped. He followed that with a curse.

            "The water will sting, but wounds must be washed," Tenya said. Her jaw was clenched, set in her determination. Sark nodded, and braced himself.

            She left him after that, only to return minutes later with a pulpy mess of an ointment. It stung as well, but she assured him it would prevent infection.

            Sark was covered in enough patches of gauze that it might as well have been a shirt itself. But Tenya had helped him.

            _Why?_ She was obviously aware of the danger she was in by helping him. Her faith in Strachen was waning, and she seemed . . . attached to Sark. Something about the way she treated his cuts . . . _she likes me_. He realized that seemed like a juvenile assumption, but it also was an insight he knew would play to his favor.

            The question now was should he push her to help him escape. 

            _You're in no shape to escape right now._

            _Rest._ He would prepare for the opportune moment. And at the moment, Tenya would help him.

            Amazingly, he was given a full day's rest before Strachen visited. Despite what the old man said about wanting to make Sark suffer, he also wanted information. Strachen asked where Irina was, hinted at going after Sydney and his family—but Sark knew Strachen wasn't close to anyone. So Sark played the meek captive, and succeeding in getting Strachen to back off for a little while.

            _More time to recover. _It wouldn't last, but as long as Strachen felt that Sark feared him, the better of Sark would be.

            He tried to exercise in his little cell. The cuts protested, but Sark pushed past feeling the healing skin breaking apart. He needed to be stronger. Tenya probably wouldn't come up with a fool-proof escape.

            She visited late one morning, bringing him a croissant from Strachen's normal breakfast. Sark smiled at her, flirted even. She smiled back demurely, and gave him the croissant. 

            "Rest quickly," she had said before leaving him. "I'll see you soon."

            He obeyed her. Sark was half-sleeping several hours later when he heard the gate creak open. He sat up quickly as Tenya motioned him out of the cell.

            Everything was dark except for small lamps every so often. Sark put a shirt on, gingerly as he was still sore. 

            They didn't speak. Her silence was clue enough for him. Adrenaline heightened Sark's awareness, and he found his eyes darting to every possible corner. Tenya grabbed his hand, clutching it tightly. Sark was amazed at how normal that seemed.

            He shook his head, and followed where she led. 

            Tunnels, tunnels and more tunnels . . . Sark had no idea Strachen's property extended this far. They descended, ascended, winded back and forth. Tenya seemed to know exactly where to go. That struck him as odd, since she was part of the house staff, but maybe she had learned the layout over the years.

            _How long has Strachen had her?_  Sark didn't know if she was treated like a slave, or like a true employee, but either way, he didn't want Tenya around Strachen. He made a mental note to hide her somewhere in the world when they got out of this.

            They finally reached the outside. Unlike his previous excursion, the night sky was clear and starry. Tenya ran ahead, stilling pulling him by his hand. The ground was uneven, a mixture of random stones and tall grass. The grass whipped at his body, poking at his arms.

            He grimaced, but eliminated the pain from his senses. And then he groaned, when he saw where they were.

            Tenya had taking them to a boat, the airboat from just nights before. 

            "Get in, quickly!" she hissed. 

            Sark just stared at the boat. His feet were rooted where he stood. _Escape, now! _But instead, he felt something.

            He couldn't admit it was fear. Maybe instincts. _That's optimistic,_ he chided himself. _Get in the boat now!_

            "What's wrong?"

            He shook his head, and forced himself to get on the boat. 

            "Let's go," he mumbled. Tenya nodded, and gave him a smile. It wasn't reassurance, but Sark let it go.

            "We can't start the fans," she stated.

            "It'll alert Strachen's men," Sark filled in. She held up an oar for each of them, and they began paddling away.

            Rowing, of all things . . . it was good exercise, to be sure, but it hurt like _hell_! Each stroke brought on that feeling that his cuts were reopening—again. He refused to allow himself to cry aloud, so he took it out on the inside of his cheek, biting down hard. 

            "Where are we going?" Sark asked after composing himself. Tenya pointed with her oar. Sark squinted in that direction, and saw a large shadow ahead of them. As they neared it, he realized it was another boat, this one an old fishing boat.

            Sark was impressed; Tenya had actually thought this out. She didn't just get him out of his cell—she really planned an escape.

            _Why? How could she go to these lengths?_ It amazed him.

            The fishing boat was empty on deck. Sark grunted as he pulled himself on board. 

            "The crew is downstairs," Tenya said, smoothing out wrinkles on her standard uniform. _Is that all she has to wear?!_ She turned and went below deck, leaving Sark to look around.

            He looked back at the shore, seeing the lights to Strachen's estate. _I'm free._

            _Then why do I still feel anxious?_ He should be rejoicing; instead he felt . . .

            _Endangered_. 

            He turned from the edge of the boat and ran after Tenya. 

            "Tenya," he called as he ran down the stairs.

            That's when he froze. 

            Tenya had trails of tears on her face. Her eyes were wide and her chest heaved with her ragged breathing. A large steel fishing hook, made for swordfish and sharks, was hooked around her neck.

            And against her skin was a butcher knife, held by a hefty-looking guard. Behind him stood an overjoyed Strachen.

            "Mr. Sark. The girl will die, no matter what you do. But you choose how slow she will die."

            A thousand images and thoughts flew through Sark's mind. His veins expanded with the adrenaline and rushing blood flowing through him. Tenya was in danger, and because she helped him.

            Something nagged him. He was alert, on edge, but yet something wasn't really urgent about this situation.

            _What have I missed?_

            Tenya screamed, interrupting Sark's analysis. The guard dragged the blade across her throat, lightly, but threatening enough to scare the girl.

            "Wait!" Sark yelled, holding up his hands.

            "Tell me where Derevko took the Retract files, and I'll make it quick," Strachen said evenly. 

            Sark's head was pounding, not from physical pain, but mental pressure. 

            _Something, something I've missed._

            Tenya stared at him, her eyes still wide, but the urgency in her expression . . . he saw through it.

            "Sark, please!" she whispered. 

            And Sark smiled. The smile turned into a smirk. He knew what it was. 

            "The files from the NSC vault," he said, musing to himself. "That's what you want." He huffed at that, but still smiled to himself. He knew the game they were playing now, and everyone was in on it.

            "Kill her," Sark said simply. He turned on one heel, and ran up the stairs. Shouts followed him, but he pushed it aside.

            He knew Tenya was fine; after all, she worked for Strachen.

            Sark reached the deck, and had a brief moment of indecision.

            _Airboat!_ He ran for the side of the boat, ready to dive overboard. Just as he was leaping off one leg, he felt an inexplicable and sharp blow in his calf. Sark grabbed his calf, and in looking down, saw the large butcher knife lodged in his leg. 

            "Going somewhere, Mr. Sark?" The voice was Tenya's, and the sudden haughtiness reminded him of a hyena. She was poised as if she had just thrown the knife at him.

            Sark yanked the knife out, gasping as he did. He held the knife up, ready to fight the three people on board. _Strachen__ will be easy. The guard is too hefty for his own good. And Tenya will be quick._

            She was, but too quick for Sark. Shedding any persona she had adopted before, Tenya launched herself at him confidently, diving into his chest. Sark's back hit the deck, and he clutched his chest as Tenya jumped to her feet. The knife flew from his hands.

            She backed off, allowing him to hobble to his feet. Sark glared at her.

            "You're a convincing actress, Tenya," he said, hoping to bait her in some way.

            Her eyes glowered at that, but she smirked at him. Then she took two steps forward and kicked him solidly in his stabbed calf.

            She was on top of him almost immediately after that, pinning him down with her light, but strong, bodyweight. She pummeled him, punching his chest, where she knew he hurt.

            Sark warded off a few blows, but the pain was catching up with him. The coral cuts were stinging again, and his leg just ached like a heart attack in the wrong place. Tenya hit him across his jaw, and again on his cheek bone. 

            He finally caught her fist in the air, and shoved her off of him with all his effort. Tenya landed at Strachen's feet. The guard looked ready to jump in, but for some reason was waiting.

            Sark didn't want to find out why. He stumbled to his feet, backing away to the back of the boat.

            _Jump in the water, quickly!_

            He wasn't moving fast enough, and he knew it. But he had half his body over the edge, and soon he was in the water.

            _Swim!_  His head came up to the surface, and then Sark started to swim as effectively as possible. His leg protested, so he just kicked with his other one. He didn't hear anything from Strachen, which he knew was a bad sign.

            _Don't ask why; just escape!_ Sark dove under the water, wanting to hide himself from—

            He heard something plunge into the water around him. But it wasn't just in one place. Sark tried to see what it was, but couldn't see anything in the combined darkness of the waters and the night. Whatever it was, it was sinking.

            Suddenly something was on top of him. It was coarse, and had holes in it. Sark tried to swim out of it, but only found himself pushed down and tangled by the net's weights. He was caught again, this time like a dolphin.

            _Dolphin._ Suddenly he saw himself again, as a boy, in that pool. _Ilene, Calvin._

_            Water._

_            Drowning._

The nightmare was coming to an end, but not the end he'd hoped for now. The net was being pulled closed, and Sark felt himself, net and all being pulled towards the boat.

            He sucked in a huge breath of air as soon as he was out of the water. The hefty guard was proving his worth as he dragged Sark's sorry body back onto deck.

            The net clung to Sark, entangled his whole body. He struggled against it, trying to find any way loose.

            He stopped struggling and just flopped onto his back. Everything about his body, appearance and movement, suggested he'd given up.

            "Why?" he whispered. He looked up from his position. Strachen merely smiled, while Tenya spoke victoriously.

            "I thought you might try to save me. Obviously you saw through our charade," she said. "Either way, it was fun while it lasted." She smiled falsely at him, then kicked him in the face.

            His nightmare paused into a black, fuzzy curtain of unconsciousness.

  
a/n: I promise, Sydney's coming. Next chapter should be up relatively quickly.


	12. Red Hair

Red Hair

            Sensory deprivation again. The cage of water, with only two inches of air. 

            Strachen renewed his interrogation, tirelessly demanding answers to questions. Sark was weak, he knew. His body couldn't heal. His leg still bled, not as much as a fresh wound, but Sark could taste his own blood in the water around him.

            He was starting to talk. Maybe babble was a more accurate description. 

            "Where is Derevko?"

            "If I knew, I'd kill her myself," Sark said once. "She left me in that vault . . ."

            Sark knew he was breaking down. It was slowly happening, but he wasn't on his guard.

            He didn't care.

            And Strachen knew it. The questioning lasted longer each time, pushing on Sark's resistance. He ended one session with another near-drowning, during which Sark only relived that near-death he and Ilene faced in the pool.

            He couldn't help but focus on her hair. That red hair . . . it stood out, like the only colored image in a black and white photo. She was the only red-head of the family. Calvin had highlights of red, but was more like his brother—a blonde. 

            Ilene . . . he'd always been close to her. When Sark returned to his family, she was the one who stepped towards him. His parents, even Calvin—they were cautious in reaccepting him. But Ilene—was it the drowning?

            During that time, had some unbreakable bond been formed?

            It didn't matter. Sark remembered that the last time he'd seen her, he'd lied to her. And to Sydney—and it'd been so long, that he couldn't remember . . .

            She would hate him again, now. Both Sydney and Ilene would have enough reason to . . .

            _Like it matters.__ You'll not survive this one._

            Ilene's red hair stayed in his mind. It was comforting, for some reason. It was his link to what was now past.

            Every time Strachen came, Sark saw red hair. It made him laugh once, until he sobered up with the thought that he was losing it. 

            Tenya had red hair, which just looked really odd on her. The guards even . . . 

            And then someone new. But this person had no guards with her.

            _Her_. Odd. Her hair was a fiery red, different from Ilene's. It was cut short, and the red was starting to border on magenta.

            She went to the control panel and raised the cage from the water. That wasn't too odd, because Sark fully expected to be dropped back into the water. She was talking to him, but Sark couldn't hear her. It was warped, like hearing someone talk underwater. 

            But she startled him when she jumped on top of the cage. She opened the top, and reached for him. It was when she touched him that he knew this was different.

            "Sydney," he mumbled. He saw a gun, dangling from her hand, like he was dangling from her hold as he stumbled along with her. 

            She fired shots, and Sark sensed some urgency in moving along. He tried to be cooperative, but didn't know if it was working.

            They were outside, and Sark saw several dark figures moving about.

            "Did we get him?"

            "Yes. Weiss has him in custody."

            "Good. We'll take Strachen back."

            "And Sark?"

            "No. Please, Vaughn. Let him go."

            A comforting cloud settled over him again, and Sark passed out.

  
  
            He briefly woke up on a plane, and couldn't help but think Sydney and Agent Vaughn would be by his side. He fully expected to be handcuffed and strapped down so he couldn't move. 

            But he wasn't. 

            "Julian?" By his side was Ilene. He saw her, but his eyes started shutting. Sark couldn't keep them open.

            "Ilene . . ." he muttered. He let his eyes stay shut. 

            "You're all right. We'll be home soon."

            "Home . . ." he vaguely remembered saying.  
  
            That's where he woke up. He noticed the ceiling first, then moved his gaze around the room. His desk, the closet . . . he _was_ home.

            He sat upright, alarmed, but the sudden movement hurt.

            _It's not safe here!_ Strachen and others might know where his family lived. He forced himself on his feet, clutching his chest as he did. His leg throbbed, but he made himself move forward. He was dressed in a button-down shirt and an old pair of flannel pajama pants, neither of which he ever remembered owning.

            He made it to his door and out into the hallway. In his haste, he failed to realize how weak he was. His eyes widened as Sark saw the ground quickly approach him. His knees buckled, and Sark fell on them and his hands.

            His lungs expanded and contracted quickly, and his stomach lurched its own protest.

            _What the hell is happening?_ Sark fought to control the sudden urge to vomit. He never fell ill. _Then what is this?!_

            "Julian!" The unusually high pitch of the voice told him it was his mother. Sark couldn't raise his head to look at her. Her hands grasped him, gently, as if she knew he was in some pain.

            "Mom," he said faintly.

            "Come on," she said, helping him back to his feet. "You don't have your strength. I'll go get you something to eat."

            Sark shook his head. "No, there's no time," he said, gulping down a wave of nausea. "We're not safe here."

            She laughed at that. "Yes, we are. No objections, Julian. Trust me, we're safe." He continued to argue, but found himself lying back down in his bed, wincing as his back rubbed against the mattress. 

            "I'll let Ilene explain. She seems to understand this all better than we do anyway," his mom said before leaving his room.

            _Explain what?_ Sark's mind was swirling. He'd been in that water cage, in Strachen's estate.

            _Sydney__._  She came for him. _What about Strachen? And Ilene?_ He remembered seeing Ilene, on a plane. 

            And now he was suddenly back in Ireland. Sark tried to sit up again. His body still ached.

            _The coral._ Sark looked down at his chest and arms. His arms had several scabs, long, rough patches of old skin and blood. He unbuttoned his shirt, and saw the same on his chest. _At least it's been healing_.

            His eyes moved to his leg. Sark pulled up the pant leg and saw his calf was bound tightly in gauze.

            "Does it still hurt?"

            Sark looked up from his leg to the doorway. "Ilene," he said with a relieved smile. She grinned at him and came in the room, claiming a seat by his bed.

            "We were worried about you, but the doctor said you'd survive."

            "Have I been unconscious this whole time?" he asked.

            Ilene smiled at that. "No, you woke up every now and then. You don't recall?" Sark shook his head. "Figures—you were pretty out of it," she said.

            "What happened?"

            Just then, their mom reentered, an elaborate tray of food in her hands.

            "Ilene, you make him eat this, all right?" The aroma of the food suddenly had Sark famished. The tray sat on his lap, and he didn't know where to start. He picked up a sandwich, then nodded for Ilene to continue.

            "You went to get what Strachen wanted, didn't you?" Her accusatory tone wasn't lost on Sark. He gulped down a bite of the sandwich.

            "Yes, but not for him. Not for me, either," he said, somewhat defensively.

            Ilene held up a hand for him to stop. "I know. Sydney told me Strachen caught you, in that vault." Sark nodded. "We didn't know where you were. Sydney didn't tell me everything that was going on, but I think the CIA wasn't thrilled about you being alive, or about rescuing you."

            "The CIA knowingly rescued me?" That was odd. He couldn't imagine Agent Vaughn or Jack Bristow purposely helping him in anyway.

            Ilene shrugged. "I don't know the details, but Sydney told me she'd found where you were. She had me waiting at a nearby airfield, and as soon as she found you, she brought you to the plane."

            Sark chewed on that and the sandwich for a moment. "Did she kill Strachen?" He could hardly hide the hopefulness in his tone.

            Ilene shook her head. "I don't think so. She just put you and a doctor on the plane, and sent us here."

            The sandwich was gone, and while he knew he hadn't eaten anything in awhile, nothing else tempted him. He placed a hand on his stomach, trying to calm the nausea that still plagued him.

            "How did Mom get here? Are Dad and Calvin all right too?" 

            Ilene nodded; her hair swished around her head, catching Sark's eye. "They're getting you some medicine the doctor ordered. They all were here when we arrived; they were expecting us."

            Sark heard her, but his eyes hadn't left her hair. It sent a humorous shudder through his body as he recalled moments of his delirium at Strachen's estate.

            "What?" she asked. Sark shook his head. 

            "Nothing." He picked up the tray on his lap, and set it at the foot of his bed. He noticed how heavy the tray seemed, and that alarmed him somewhat. "I should take a shower."

            Ilene nodded. "Please. You don't smell like you've bathed for awhile." She gave him a teasing smile.

            "Well, I was immersed several times in water, if that counts." He let that go, and stood up tentatively. 

            The water still stung at some of his cuts, especially his leg, but it wasn't nearly as bad as his previous treatment.

            Trying to clean himself proved tediously dangerous. He tried to balance on his good leg, while he favored the stab wound. The soap left chunks of suds over his cuts and scabs. He found himself ready to give up for awhile. 

            Sark almost jumped when he saw his reflection in the mirror. He froze, not even bothering to reach for a towel. 

            His body was . . . pathetic. The cuts were healing, but they left new marks over old scars. Between Burma and his last captivity with Strachen, his body would be permanently scarred. 

            His eyes followed his reflection down his arms, and down to his legs. The stab wound was ugly, but when were such things ever pleasant? He broke his gaze from the mirror and inspected the wound. Something below it caught his eye. He touched it, and realized it was the gun shot wound from the night he rescued Ilene. Now it was a puckered scar, a blob of pink scar tissue.

            Sark stood up straight, and something else made him freeze.

            He was visibly thinner. His waist sunk in from his hips and rib cage. He could actually _see_ his rib cage. Sark looked at the corner of the bathroom, where a scale waited.

            The scale rolled around, but stopped short of what he normally weighed. He was at 58 kilos. 

            _I'm normally at 66_.

            A knock on the bathroom door startled his discovery.

            "Yes," he called out.

            "Julian, the doctor's here." It was Calvin's voice. Sark couldn't help but feel excited at seeing his brother again.

            "Thanks, Cal." He got dressed quickly. Sark buttoned up his shirt as he went back to his room.

            "Mr. Sark," came a deep male voice, "you can leave the shirt open." Sark looked up to see a gray-haired man. He was abnormally tall, and had a very obvious comb-over. But his smile was one of a pediatrician.

            Sark nodded, and glanced around for his family. Calvin waited in the room. Sark smiled when he saw him, and hobbled to him for a hug.

            "I thought I told you not to come back with any more scars," Calvin chided his older brother. Sark couldn't help but smirk at that.

            "One of many failures while I was gone," he said. 

            "Mr. Sark, why don't you sit, and we'll take a look at your leg," the doctor said. Calvin raised an eyebrow at the doctor. Calling him 'Sark' still seemed odd, but it made Sark realize the doctor came from Sydney, or the CIA.

            "May I ask who you work for, Doctor—" Sark asked, waiting for the name blank to be filled.

            "Doctor Ridgewald," he answered. "Ms. Bristow asked me to make sure you were healthy." He began prodding at Sark's leg, and Sark bit his lip to keep from wincing.

            "How do you know Sydney?" Sark asked. He noticed a cryptic smile spread over Ridgewald's face.

            "Let's just say she got me out of a very unsavory environment. This is the least I could do to make it up to her."

            Sark nodded. "So she called in a favor," he said. _That means the CIA may not know I'm here._ He still wasn't sure of that situation and Sydney, but all in good time.

            "Two, actually," the doctor said. "She has a full-time guard downstairs." 

            Sark's forehead crinkled in confusion. _Guard?_

            _That's what Mom meant when she said we're safe._

            "Yeah, the guard's cool," Calvin said, popping in his two cents. He still was in the room, sitting in the corner. Sark acknowledged the comment, but watched what the doctor was doing.

            "Keep your leg wrapped, but change the bandages every day," Ridgewald said. "Now your cuts . . ."

            Sark took off his shirt. He noticed Calvin stared at the array of wounds and scars.

            "What are these cuts from?" Ridgewald asked. His brow was furrowed, as if he'd tried for some time to figure out the origin.

            "Coral," Sark replied. The doctor gave Sark a look. "I wasn't snorkeling, if that's your question."

            "I'll take that to mean you'd rather not go into the subject," Ridgewald deduced aloud. Sark nodded, flickering his glance at Calvin.

            "Well, the pills I had your father get should fight any infection. Which is good, because a few of the cuts are still raw and swollen." Ridgewald dug into a bag of his supplies. "Put this ointment on your cuts, every day after you shower. Leave them uncovered. No bandages." He zipped up his bag and stood up.

            "Thank you, Dr. Ridgewald," Sark said, reaching for his shirt.

            "One more thing," the doctor said. "You need to start eating well. You look malnourished, and if you don't get what you need, you can fall ill to infections much easier."

            Sark nodded. "Am I fine to walk around, exercise and all?"

            The doctor gave him a hard look. "As long as you don't push it. Don't stress your leg anymore than it already is. Minimal walking for at least four days."

            But of course, after two days, he was walking around as normally as he could disguise. The good doctor had returned to the United States, while the guard stayed as Sark recovered.

            Sark learned from the guard, whose name was Lyndon, that Sydney had helped him avoid a hit squad. Now Lyndon stood watching and protecting the house until Sark was, as Lyndon put it, "back in your prime."

            But Lyndon didn't know what was going on back in the United States. No one did, and Sark wondered if Sydney had been made in helping him escape and recover. Had she killed Strachen? That knowledge would help him greatly in easing his mind. 

            His family occupied him with questions and, oddly enough, love. Sark expected more hesitant attention and cautiousness, but they seemed to have moved beyond the shock of Sark's occupation.

            "How did you come up with 'Sark'?"

            "What does it take to become a spy?"

            "So, do you always carry a gun?"

            "Could you please not carry a gun?"

            It made him laugh, some of the questions. And one day, he played back what he thought happen at Strachen's estate, and came up with a question of his own.

            "When Sydney brought me to you, was she wearing a wig?" His parents just looked at him as if he was crazy, and Ilene started laughing.

            "That was random," she teased. Sark shrugged.

            "I remember seeing red hair, but am not sure if I just imagined it," he explained. Ilene nodded.

            "Yes, she was. It was this bright red monstrosity, but she was wearing a wig," Ilene said. "Do you often wear disguises?"

            Sark smirked at that.


	13. Stronger

Stronger

            He'd gained about 3 kilos, but knew he was still weak. So he started retraining. Sit-ups were easy enough; at least they didn't stress his leg. After half an hour, Sark switched to push-ups.

            He tried a light jog a couple of days later. It ended up being the slowest run he'd ever attempted. But he did it every day, knowing his speed and endurance would increase.

            "Julian," his mom called out one day, "do you need help with your medicine?" Sark had just come out of the shower.

            "Yes. One moment please," he said politely. He emerged without his shirt on, ready for the ointment for his cuts. 

            His mom started to apply the ointment on his back. Sark stared ahead, out his window. Calvin was outdoors, trying his best at chin-ups on a low tree branch. Sark smirked at that.

            He heard her sigh. Sark glanced over his shoulder, catching her eye.

            "What?" he asked. 

            His mom shook her head, and pushed on his shoulder so his back was facing her again. She continued with the ointment. It was a lengthy task. Sark timed it at ten minutes.

            She sighed again, and Sark couldn't take it anymore. He walked across his room, and picked out a shirt, seemingly ending the task.

            "Julian Sark, you get back here right now," she ordered. Sark froze, then turned back to face her. 

            His mom looked as shocked as Sark felt. _Julian Sark?_ Her face softened.

            "Let me finish," she said, motioning for him to return. He nodded.

            She continued painting on the ointment, and turned him around to do his arms and chest. Normally Sark did that himself, but he sensed his mom needed to stay for a moment.

            "Is that how everyone thinks of me?" he asked in hushed tones. His mom's eyes flickered up at him.

            "You're still Julian, our son," she said. "And you're still this mysterious spy named Sark." She paused, looking to see how her son was taking this. Sark didn't say anything, but stared at the floor. "Ilene told us about how you saved her. She saw what you do firsthand."

            He nodded. "It scared her."

            "Yes," she affirmed. "But she saw how brave you are. You face so much danger, and even when you tried to leave it behind, it's still a threat."

            _She knows none of them will be safe with me around._ Sark swallowed.

            "You all would be safer if I hadn't come back."

            "Yes." The answer pierced Sark's heart. His mask came up instantly, hiding emotions he didn't dare show. "But we'd rather have you back."

            He didn't really buy that. "Why all the sighs then?"

            She sighed yet again. "I've never seen so much pain purposely inflicted on anyone. And here it is, all on my son."

            "It happens," he said a little too nonchalantly. 

            "Not to my son," his mom shot back with that tone that used to make him cower. Sark looked and saw tears in her eyes. "I just wish I could have prevented all this."

            The floor looked inviting again, and Sark stared at it, only to see the shame he'd created.

            "You did everything right, Mom," he said softly. "I walked into that life." He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and went for his shirt again.

            He tried one of his fight routines. It was clumsy and uncoordinated, but it exhausted him. He continued the routines daily.

            Calvin watched him. One day, he interrupted Sark's concentration on the imaginary blows.

            "Hey, Julian," he said, that younger brother shyness in his voice, "Um, would it help if you had someone to . . . spar against?"

            'Spar' came out like a foreign word. Sark smiled, stopping his routine to catch his breath.

            "Are you volunteering?"

            Calvin shrugged awkwardly. "I'd like to learn." Sark smiled again. He waved his brother closer, and started to demonstrate basic punches and kicks.

            The brothers sparred daily, dancing around in the garage. Sark was amazed at how quickly his brother improved. Strength was an issue for Calvin, but speed was not. Sark found himself barely blocking Calvin's hits.

            They didn't land any punches, not on purpose. Once Sark overestimated the space between them, and hit Calvin squarely in the chest. 

            Calvin heaved at that, clutching the impacted area.

            "Cal, are you all right?!" He helped his brother stay on his feet. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

            Calvin nodded. "I know, I know. I think you're getting better though."

            Sark couldn't help but laugh at that. "I'll believe it when I go against someone better."

            Calvin glared playfully at his brother. "That hurts, Julian."

            "Allow me to intervene then." 

            Both brothers looked up to see Lyndon, the guard. He removed his gun, and other excess hindrances. Sark raised an eyebrow at him.

            "I don't know that I'm ready for that," he said politely. Lyndon shot him a look.

            "Only one way to find out." Lyndon pushed up his sleeves, and wrung out his arms as if to loosen them up. He was in fighting stance, and waited for Sark to engage.

            Sark nodded slowly, and waved the guard to advance. Lyndon didn't hesitate.

            He started with a cross punch, and then a combination kick. Sark dodged the first, but the kick caught him in the side. He grunted and stepped back out of range.

            Lyndon advanced again, and there were no phantom punches. Sark dodged what he could, and returned what he could to Lyndon's body. The guard twisted his body around, bringing a kick high in the air to arch down on Sark. Sark caught his leg and pushed back, uprooting Lyndon.

            The guard fell on his back, and Sark allowed him to get back to his feet before resuming. Sark advanced, and threw a jab. He missed on purpose, then ducked and landed a punch in the man's abdomen. Lyndon stumbled backwards, but quickly returned.

            He swung at Sark, catching him in the jaw. The impact made him bite his tongue, and Sark spat out some blood on the garage floor. He nodded for Lyndon to keep coming.

            Lyndon kicked low at Sark's feet. Sark jumped, then stepped forward with one foot. He twisted backwards, and kicked out a reverse. Lyndon caught his foot, predictably. Sark kicked off his supporting leg and twisted his body in the air. His other foot connected with Lyndon's head.

            Both men fell to the ground, but Lyndon recovered too quickly from what Sark thought was a great hit. The guard pinned him to the floor and punched him in the stomach. 

            Sark winced as another hit came. He blocked the next one, holding Lyndon's fist in the air as if he held a knife. It was purely a battle of strength at that point, until Sark stretched his leg up and side-swiped Lyndon off of him. Sark quickly pushed himself up to his feet. He noticed his chest was heaving, and didn't like being so exhausted already.

            But Lyndon was heaving just as much. The two men stared at each other for a brief moment, and then Lyndon charged at Sark. 

            It dawned on him that he should have just stepped aside, but Sark took the full-body charge instead. Lyndon rammed him in the chest, picking Sark up like a lineman would. 

            Sark was slammed into the garage wall, and heard his back realign. His breath left him immediately as Lyndon dropped him. Sark slumped to the floor, but saw a roundhouse kick.

            Sark ducked, falling to his side on the floor. As Lyndon's leg continued past him,   
Sark raised his leg and dead-legged the guard. Lyndon fell to the floor on his back. Sark quickly rolled his body to the guard, and slammed his elbow in the man's chest.

            Lyndon coughed and held up a hand. Sark stopped, relieved because he was done as well.

            Sark heard something from the doorway to the kitchen. He looked up from his defeated opponent to see his family staring at the ordeal. His parents' jaws were open, and Ilene raised an eyebrow at him.

            "That is so cool," Calvin said, in awe. His mom slapped him on the chest, hushing him.

            Lyndon slowly got to his feet.

            "Mr. Sark, I think you're ready."

            Sark breathed in and out slowly, and nodded.


	14. Confrontations

Confrontations

            He left his family with Lyndon. Before going, he made Calvin promise that his fascination with fighting wouldn't evolve to following Sark's lifestyle. Calvin nodded somberly.

            His parents asked where he was going. Sark just said he had some loose ends to tie up.

            Los Angeles was as clear as he'd ever seen it, especially for a February morning. Sark slowed his car along Sydney's street, but saw her car pulling out. He sped up and went ahead of her.

            He knew the route she took to work, and it was always scenic. Sark thought that was her way of escaping.

            He pulled off the road, parking on a dusty stretch that overlooked the city. He leaned against the side of his car and waited.

            She nearly killed a squirrel when she saw him. The brakes squealed as she stopped abruptly. She backed up and parked by his car.

            She took in his appearance slowly. Her lips spread into a smile as she looked at him from his shiny shoes, up the black suit and shirt, to his dark sunglasses. Sark returned the smile and took a step towards her.

            "Hello, Sydney," he said smoothly. 

            She closed the distance between them and kissed him softly. "I'm glad you're all right," she whispered.

            Sark kissed her, lingering on her lips until she pulled away. "Thank you for taking care of me."

            She smiled, but there was tension within it. Sark dropped his grin.

            "What's happened?"

            Sydney shrugged, which was a tip-off for him. She never shrugged unless she was hiding something.

            "Does the CIA still want me brought in?" he asked.

            She didn't answer at first, but slowly gave in to a nod. "Yes. They're investigating the mission still. Strachen seems to be implicating us, of all things."

            Sark touched his forehead, rubbing a spot above his eye to prevent the coming headache.

            "Strachen's alive?"

            Sydney didn't answer, and Sark swore under his breath. 

            "So the CIA has him in custody," he deduced aloud. Sydney nodded.

            "He's at Camp Harris. The mission was to capture him, and you. But Weiss and Vaughn agreed to let you go," she said. "The Retract files are still missing. I know my mother took them, but the CIA is convinced you are still working for her. Strachen is . . . giving them more reason to believe that. And now few are buying our story that you escaped."

            "Of course," Sark said. "Strachen, being _alive_, probably told them the condition I was in. I couldn't possibly have escaped on my own."

            He ran a hand through his blonde hair and turned to face the city below. He breathed in deeply. Several thoughts and plans went through his mind. _I can't let __Sydney__ get in trouble for rescuing me._

_            And I can't keep hiding._ His family couldn't be safe either. There were some in the CIA that would use them against Sark.

            He turned back to Sydney. Her hair was smooth, falling in front of her face as she stared at Sark's shoes. 

            "Sydney," he said softly. "In France, you promised me that we'd find away to be together." He swallowed and joined her star at his shoes. "Do you think the CIA will ever consciously leave me alone?"

            She sighed, but shook her head. "I don't know how we could make it work, Sark."

            Sark bit his tongue, holding back his anger. He knew it wasn't her fault; it was because of her that he was alive, even. But his anger lashed out in his mind at the CIA, Strachen, and himself.

            He closed the distance between them again, and held her face in his hand. He took off his sunglasses, staring intently at her through his bright blue eyes.

            "I'll make this work," he said fiercely. "I promise you. If you still want me." 

            Her eyes were so . . . _mournful_. Before she could answer, Sark kissed her mouth. It was brief and hard, but he had work to do.

            He put his shades back on, and walked to his car. He sped off without looking back.  
  
            It was a boring life, but someone had to do it. Sark watched as David Anderson left work at five a.m. and headed home.

            Every day, David stopped by a grocery store five miles from his home. He was in and out within ten minutes, always with one plastic bag. David drove off, and sped home the rest of the way.

            Sark followed the man into the store one day. He put on an Atlanta Braves hat, and tried to appear in a hurry, but purposeful in his pursuit of a loaf of bread.

            He let himself swagger a bit, that cool and confident strut. _Sydney__ is so much better at this than I am_. He shook that from his mind and just focused on the task at hand.

            David moved through the store, weaving between boxes which stockers unloaded in the early morning. He headed back to the beverage aisle. Sark perused the variety of Jones soda while David picked out a specific bottle of wine.

            _It can't be anything good—we're at a grocery store!_  Sark grabbed a four-pack, threw the yawning clerk a five dollar bill and continued to follow David out. The man was home in under ten minutes. And Sark waited outside the neglected rambler as the sun rose.

            Anderson's wife left for work at 7:30, and didn't return until 6 p.m. She looked weary as she locked her car outside and sulked her way indoors. 

            _And why shouldn't she? Her husband's been drinking a bottle of wine while she was gone, working hard._ Sark wasn't sure what she did, because what really mattered was what David did.

            David was a little heavier than Sark, but the basic appearance was close enough. Tall, blonde . . . add a hat, and no one would know the difference.

            The next night, Sark was waiting inside the home when the young Mrs. Anderson got home. The couple immediately started arguing in the bedroom, but Sark wasn't interested in their domestic dispute. The noise masked part of his plan. 

            He poured out a vial of sedative into the wine bottle and the coffee maker.

            Both Andersons were unconscious by 8 p.m. 

            Sark walked through the house, carefree as he dressed for the task. David's uniform was a little loose, but Sark's confidence would make up for any questions.

            He practiced David's voice, deep but nasal, and gruff compared to Sark's own smooth accent.

            He straightened the uniform, pocketed the necessary keys, and moved on to the next step.

            No one questioned him as he entered the facility. No one smiled, nodded, or greeted him. And that was just fine. The guards were tired, even though most just barely came on duty. It was partially the nocturnal schedule. It was partially because they were lazy.

            Mainly, it was because no one ever penetrated their security at Camp Harris.

            That was about to change.

            Sark wasted no time in finding where Strachen was being held. He didn't hurry, though, to that cell. He walked steadily, checking his emotions and excitement. 

            He was a walking wall—no emotion, no expression, just blankness.

            His footsteps echoed throughout the cell block. There were only two other unfortunate prisoners in this area, and they didn't move or acknowledge him. 

            That was fine. 

            When his footsteps stopped in front of Strachen's cell, the man stirred on his metal cot.

            "Strachen," Sark called out, having no qualms about alerting the other inmates. The old man groaned and sat up.

            "Why do you bother me at this hour?" the man grumbled. Sark smirked at that, and dropped the American accent.

            "Expecting first-class treatment?"

            Strachen froze as he noticed the change in voice. "Who's there?"

            Sark laughed, as he removed the gun at his hip. "Who do you think?" He saw the old man gulp. "You should be flattered. I went to these lengths to visit you."

            "Mr. Sark. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement," Strachen tried. His voice quivered with fear, but that only fueled Sark.

            "I doubt it." Sark screwed on a silencer to the standard-issue gun now in his hand. "Any last words?"

            Strachen's face was paler than usual, but he slowly smiled. It wasn't pleasant, and it wasn't victory. It was passive defeat. "Derevko would be proud."

            Sark smirked and shook his head. "No, but I am." With that, he quickly extended his arm and fired two shots.

            The bullets zinged in the air before smacking into Strachen's head. The impact was dull-sounding, and wet. The old man's body clumped to the floor. Sark waited for it to still, then fired again at the head.

            He walked out of Camp Harris as alarms started blaring. A smile spread over his face, and Sark started running for his car.

  
  
            "Where are you?" his father asked over the phone. 

            "I can't say right now, but I wanted to make sure you all are fine," Sark said. "I need you to start packing some things."

            "What things?" There was that cautiousness in his voice again, but Sark just smiled at it.

            "Things you absolutely want to keep. Leave the furniture," he said. "Just gather what keepsakes and things you cannot live without."

            "Why? Where are we going?" 

            Sark smiled into the phone. "I'll call you in a few days, and tell you. Stay indoors, and keep Lyndon on alert."

            He hung up before more questions were asked. His next call was all business.

            "Yes, I'm prepared to purchase a property in Hamilton, Ontario, and two apartments in Toronto." 

            He flew to Toronto. Things were calmer in Canada, though he knew it wasn't 100% safe. As long as the CIA didn't see him there, everything would work out.

            The realtor was thrilled with the business. Sark immediately approved of the apartments, and gave instructions of how to have them decorated, for an extra fee, of course.

            The house in Hamilton was more opulent than his family had ever lived in, but that was part of the point, wasn't it? Sark figured that while he was setting up a new life for them, he might as well spoil them a bit too.

            The neighborhood was quiet, filled with empty-nesters not unlike his parents. Calvin would be going to college soon anyway. Sark approved the necessary paperwork, under safe names of course, and transferred funds to the seller.

            The realtor had never closed on a property so fast. She set to work at decorating and overseeing all the household purchases. 

            And Sark flew to France.


	15. Meet the Parents

Meet the Parents  
  
            Irina wasn't in the French chateau. So Sark flew to London, where she wasn't present either. The flat in Zurich was empty, and Germany was the same.

            Moscow was a waste of time, and Sark knew she wasn't in the United States. He tried Taipei.

            She was expecting him, of course. Sark didn't expect her not to, not when he was obviously tracking her down. She sat casually in a morning breakfast room; it was unusual for the Chinese, but Irina herself blended in nicely with a silk vest and pale linen pants. Her hair was twisted in a bun on the crown of her head.

            She motioned for him to sit across from her. Sark did so with a smirk.

            "Taiwan is nice, this time of year," he began with a touch of mockery. Irina's lips curled upward, but didn't quite reach a smile.

            "I didn't intend for Strachen to capture you," she said. Sark waved her words off.

            "I didn't come here for an apology, Irina," he said. "Not revenge, not your life." She raised an eyebrow at that, as if challenging him to even try.

            "What then?"

            Sark cocked his head to the side, and allowed a bemused smile to appear on his face. 

            "The Retract files."

            Irina shifted in her seat.

            "How do I know you won't—"

            "Please, Irina, I'm not after it for personal gain," Sark interrupted. "We both know I'm the lesser of the two evils here."

            She actually smiled at that.

            "You're trying to make peace," she said, thinking aloud. Sark gave her a nod.

            "Yes. You recall that I was somewhat peaceful before I was dragged out by Strachen, and misled to complete a mission in the Utah desert."

            His cynicism didn't go unnoticed.

            "It's hard to make peace when you infiltrate Camp Harris and murder a terrorist." She paused, waiting for a reaction, but surprisingly received none. "It was only somewhat peaceful," Irina said, moving on, "because you weren't truly happy."

            Sark shot her an annoyed glare. "Philosophy now, Irina?"

            "You weren't happy," Irina pressed forward, "because you and Sydney can't be together."

            "Irina, don't advise me on my love life," he said firmly.

            "So it is love," she said, making Sark roll his eyes. "What will you do now?"

            Sark leaned forward in his chair, his eyes never letting up in their intense gaze through Irina.

            "I'm going to get the Retract files, and return them to their rightful owner," he said firmly. "And then I'm going to do what ever it takes to live my life the way I want."

            They sat opposite each other, staring. Sark, looking for a break in his former employer's façade; Irina, looking for her former employee's purpose.

            It ended with Irina smiling. She stood, and left the room, leaving Sark to follow. The rooms were dark, heavily shaded. _More for security than anything_, Sark thought. Rich reds and dull yellows covered the rooms. An ill-painted portrait of Mao hung on the wall. Irina removed the painting and started keying in her code to the hidden safe. Sark averted his eyes, more out of habit than respect for his former employer.

            She reached in and removed the directory of files, carefully handing them to Sark.

            "Have you made any copies?" Sark asked. Irina shook her head.

            "It's encrypted. Believe it or not, I haven't had time to decode it."

            Sark didn't believe her, but he took the directory, and started to leave.

            "Will you miss it?" Irina asked abruptly. He knew she referred to this life, spying, doing anything to get power and accomplish the objective. Sark smirked at the question.

            "Promise me one thing," he asked her. She hesitated, but nodded. "I know you'll do anything for Sydney to be happy. I've never expected that to extend to me. But promise me you'll leave me alone." He paused, letting that sink in. "No more missions, no favors, nothing."

            "Not even just to visit?" Irina said, smiling at him. Sark shot her a look.

            "Goodbye, Irina."  
  
  
  
            Jack Bristow was an uncommonly tidy man. His apartment was immaculate, bordering on obsessively clean. Sark ran his fingers along the coffee table and the mantle; no dust.

            The dishes were all hand-washed and neatly drying in a drainer. The fridge was organized with neatly-stacked Chinese takeout boxes. The bottles of wine in the pantry were lined up by year, with the earliest year closest to the end. Sark's eyes scanned over the labels.

            "Chateau Petreuse," he said aloud. It was a 1990, but Sark figured it'd do. He searched the organized kitchen drawers for a corkscrew.

            He swirled the wine in a glass, letting it air out properly before taking a sip. That sip was horrid to him, especially when he was used to the 1982 bottle.

            _Although, when was the last time you had that?_ He relented to himself that it'd been awhile.

            He sat at the counter, sipping the terrible wine and occasionally straightening his shirt. It was a blue polo shirt, with stripes like a sunburst across his chest. He wore jeans as well, and his leather jacket and gun hung on the back of a chair across the kitchen.

            Keys jingled outside the front door, and Sark set his glass down. He took a deep breath as Jack entered his sanctuary.

            The veteran spy knew something was amiss immediately. He drew his gun and turned on a light. His eyes scanned the living room, moving slowly to the kitchen. Sark waited for discovery, a daring smirk on his face.

            Jack's jaw tightened, but that's all that changed on his face. He didn't even raise his gun. Sark had to admire such rigid composure.

            "I hope you don't mind, but I opened the 1990 bottle of Petreuse," Sark said, breaking the silence. "To be honest, it's not that great of a year, but I assume you like it."

            "I assume you have a sniper watching your back," Jack answered. Sark smiled and shook his head.

            "There's no need," he said. With that, Jack raised the gun.

            "That's foolish, but I won't complain. Hands on your head," Jack ordered sternly. Sark sighed.

            "Mr. Bristow, I came for a number of reasons, which I had hoped you would allow me to explain," Sark said smoothly. Jack didn't lower the gun.

            "Feel free to talk," Jack said. "But know that I won't hesitate to pull this trigger if I don't like what I hear."

            Sark raised an eyebrow at that. "That could put a damper on things when we reach the subject of Sydney, but we'll put that off for later." Sark took another deep breath. "I've no desire to continue in this life. I could use your help in leaving it."

            Jack's eye twitched at that.

            "You've disappeared before, only to come back and steal classified materials that threaten national security."

            Sark sighed. "That wasn't by choice. I faked my death, hoping to leave our industry behind. Strachen kidnapped my sister, which was why I reemerged."

            This time Jack's mouth twitched, which was all Sark could attribute to any surprise.

            "Your sister," Jack repeated. Sark nodded.

            "I thought Sydney would have told you."

            Jack's eyes glanced to the right. "She mentioned something, but more in passing, as if it were unreliable intel."

             Sark shrugged. "My situation is an interesting one, but for the sake of time, I won't go into it," he said. "I've been reunited with my family, only to have Strachen threaten them."

            "And that's why you killed Strachen?" Jack surmised. The younger spy nodded.

            "There might have been some personal satisfaction from it, but the bulk of the reason was protecting my family." Sark took another sip of the wine. The movement made Jack flinched, but luckily his trigger finger stayed steady. "I have the Retract files here."

            Jack's brow furrowed, the first real sign of confusion the man had ever portrayed. Sark nodded to his jacket. "I've received assurances that it hasn't been copied or decoded. I trust you'll know what to do with it."

            Jack slowly went to the jacket, his eyes darting back and forth. He patted the jacket until he found the mass of the directory. He seemed somewhat amazed when he removed it.

            "Why bring this to me?"

            Sark stared at the wine glass as he slowly swirled the liquid in a smooth, circular motion.

            "I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder," he said softly. He looked up from the glass. "I don't want to worry about what your government might do if they find my family."

            Jack raised his chin slightly as he realized what was being asked of him. "You want a deal."

            Sark shook his head. "No. A deal implies that I must work with you, the CIA, any of you. I want out completely. And I want the CIA off my back." Suddenly, he remembered other threats, and the alarm must have shown on his face. "Has the CIA told other organizations that I'm alive?"

            Jack said nothing for a moment as he evaluated Sark. Finally, he put down the gun. "No, they haven't."

            Sark's eyes flickered toward the gun until it registered what Jack said. He let out a sigh.

            "You mentioned Sydney," Jack said. "What role does she play in all this?"

            Sark shook his head. "I don't know for sure, but I know that I want her in my life." Jack didn't say anything for several moments.

            He finally stuttered on his question. "Does . . . does she . . . How does she regard you?" 

            Sark fought to keep back a smirk at the man's sudden uneasiness. 

            "I don't know for sure," Sark said. "It's hard to have anything between us when we've been on opposite sides. But that's one of several reasons I'm leaving."

            Jack nodded, and held up the Retract files.

            "I'm willing to take this to the CIA. But I can't guarantee how they will respond," he said. Sark nodded.

            "I appreciate you trying," he said, running a hand through his hair. He pulled out a piece of paper, and placed it on the kitchen counter. "Please give this to Sydney. This is how she can contact me, if she wants to."

            Sark stood and collected his jacket and gun. He tucked the gun in the back of his pants. Jack watched but didn't raise his own weapon. Sark headed for the front door.

            "How do I know your care for her is genuine?" Jack asked to Sark's back. He paused, and turned back to the older spy. Jack stared intently at Sark, wanting the truth.

            "I'm willing to give up this life for her, for others," Sark said. "Even you can't claim that, Jack." His eyes flickered to the ground and back at Jack.

            Sark turned and shut the door behind him.


	16. Not Again

a/n: thank you to sallene for her advice!

Not Again

            "Julian?" It was Ilene this time who answered the phone.

            "Hi!" Sark was amazed at how happy he sounded. "Are you all packed?" He heard her giggle on the other end.

            "Yes, but we still have no idea where we're going."

            Sark smiled into the phone. "Go to the airport. There are tickets waiting for you under the name 'Winget.' Lyndon has new IDs for you all."

            "New IDs?!" Ilene repeated. "Why?"

            "Just a precaution," Sark reassured her. "I'll see you when you get to the airport. I'll be waiting outside the baggage claim in a black SUV."

            And he was. They came out, each with two suitcases of belongings that couldn't be parted with. Calvin chattered nervously, and Ilene had that guarded smile that proved they were related. His parents simply looked lost. 

            Sark smiled and pulled alongside them. 

            "Julian!" they all exclaimed. He hugged them, then hustled them into the SUV. The ride to Hamilton was filled with nervous energy and lots of questions.

            "What did you do while you were gone?"

            "Why did we leave Ireland?"

            "Why are we in Canada?"

            "Ilene almost packed four suitcases—isn't that crazy?"

            "Where are we going?"

            The last question Sark answered as he slowed down in the established neighborhood.

            "Your new home," he said. He swallowed, hoping they would like it. All eyes were forward, staring through the glass up at the three-story house.

            They filed in methodically, slowly as if they were dazed. Sark followed, gauging each reaction. 

            "Wow," he heard from Ilene. Calvin just whistled.

            But his mom pointed to various features and never uttered a word. Finally she turned to her son.

            "Is this . . ."

            Sark smiled and nodded. "Yours." She still didn't say anymore. Her fingers ran over the surface of a solid dining room table. Her eyes scanned the kitchen, already outfitted with the latest in culinary technology. She opened a cabinet, finding a reserved but colorful set of dishes. In the hutch was a set of sparkling new formal dinnerware. 

            His dad followed her through the house, silently as he was just as perplexed as Sark. They all stopped in the master bedroom.

            A four-post bed, king-sized, occupied the middle of the room. A sheer canopy draped it. Sark's mother ran her fingers over the fabric.

            She turned to Sark, and he saw her eyes were moist. She held a hand to her lips, hushing herself.

            A joyful sob finally escaped, and she grabbed her son and hugged him with a force well beyond her normal capacity. Sark felt his father join in.

            "Thank you," was the whisper he heard.

            Sark held them tight. "No. Thank you."

  
  
  
            Ilene was happy to be in Toronto, within walking distance to the university. She resumed her studies, but under a different last name. 

            His family thought the new last name was excessive, but Sark insisted.

            "It's a small change to make," he had said. 

            Calvin moved in with his brother, in the second apartment in Toronto. Sark found it to be warmer than any place he personally stayed in, but he was glad. He thanked the realtor, who now was on a very long vacation, courtesy of Sark's generous fees.

            Sark didn't know what the CIA had decided. Sydney hadn't surfaced, and neither had Jack. He assumed that was a good thing, to an extent. _After all, Jack has the way to contact me._ If he had turned that information over to the CIA, Sark would be in a cell by now.

            But just in case something should go wrong, whether instigated by the CIA or some other organization, Sark implemented another security measure. His family was beginning to think he was paranoid, but Ilene was more tolerant than the rest. Then again, she had seen firsthand the need for that paranoia.

            Each person had a beeper of sorts. With a push of a button, it emitted an emergency signal to Sark's cell phone. He drilled into his parents' minds that they must never leave it at home, but always have it on them. Ilene offered no complaints, and eventually his parents accepted the idea.

            Calvin, of course, thought it was the coolest gadget he'd ever been given. Sark had to remind him not to show it off to his college friends.

            Everyone returned to semi-normal life. His mother made friends with unsuspecting neighbors. His father conveniently found a job right up his alley. And Sark watched from the shadows.

            There was no job for him, other than the mission he'd given himself—protecting the ones he loved.

            He checked up on Sydney every now and then, via contacts. She was fine, seemingly unmolested by her own government's previous inquiries into Sark's rescue and escape. She went on with life, and Sark understood why.

            _There's no way for us._

            How does a bird live in a fish's world?

  
  
  
            Sark paced home slowly from the grocery store. He took to walking lately. The spring air was incredibly soothing. While it was mundane and maybe a little domestic, Sark enjoyed the simplicity of a normal life.

            He was more of a watcher than anything else. He observed what occurred around him. He enjoyed the happiness his brother and sister obviously displayed in their new lives, and the felicity between his parents.

            But a dull ache in his chest never disappeared. Sark had hoped Sydney would show up someday. Whenever he walked outdoors, if he heard footsteps behind him, he had to glance over his shoulder.

            Sydney was never there.

            Such was his life. Deep down, he knew it could come to this. He knew he had to sacrifice some things, like Sydney and what he used to be.

            _But not who._ Sark realized that he would never obliterate the traits of the spy and assassin. He could never be remotely calm with just being Julian. So he was both, just as his mother had acknowledged, and of which all his family was accepting.

            There were no certainties in life, especially in that of a former spy. So Sark followed little routine in the ways he took around town. He trained daily in shooting and fighting. He surveilled activity outside his apartment, Ilene's, and his parents' home. _Better to be prepared than caught off-guard_.

            Sark snapped out of his thoughts as he took the stairs up to his apartment. He unloaded the paper bag he held, putting away milk, some fruit and Calvin's Twinkies. His brother insisted on them, saying his friends liked them.

            Sark didn't care for the friends, but their background checks revealed no reason to worry. 

            Calvin invited his freshman friends over that night. Sark reluctantly sat in on the movie they watched. It was some spy thriller, and Sark had to keep from laughing.

            _No intelligent spy would ever act on so little information._ But of course, the brazen and emboldened spy charged through the doors of the bad guy's estate, rushing to save the girl.

            Sark froze. _Would I be considered the bad guy?_

            _No. Probably the girl._ After all, Sydney rescued him. Sark smirked at himself.

            Calvin caught the smirk and shot his brother a questioning look. Sark just smiled and shook his head. He stood and went to the kitchen. 

            He kept the Petreuse hidden. _No sense wasting it on Calvin._ That, and he had no desire to have his brother and four freshman drunk in his apartment.

            The scent of the wine wafted to him. Sark closed his eyes, absorbing the luxury. He poured himself a modest glass and sipped it carefully.

            "Hog," he heard behind him. Sark turned to see Calvin discover his moment of luxury.

            He grinned but didn't offer Calvin any wine.

            "May I?" Calvin asked, stepping towards the bottle. Sark gracefully turned and moved the bottle out of his reach, all the while grabbing the box of Twinkies with his other hand.

            He placed the pastries between them and added his smirk.

            "Luxury shouldn't be wasted on youth," was his line to his brother. Calvin gave him a look that said he didn't buy the mini lesson.

            "It's 'time is wasted on the young,' and besides, you've been into this luxury stuff since you were 16," Calvin said. He reached for the bottle again, but Sark tipped his chin toward the living room.

            "Later," he promised. "After they leave." Calvin sighed, and ripped open a Twinkie. 

            "You're not impressed with the film," Calvin commented. The corner of Sark's mouth twitched up.

            "No," he replied. "Not very realistic." 

            Sark finished his wine and returned to the film.

            It was nearing the climactic ending when Sark heard his phone. The ring was different, he noticed. He flipped open the phone.

            When he read the display, his body tensed, and adrenaline flooded his body.

            _Ilene._ It was her alarm. 

            Sark jumped from his seat and rushed to the back of the apartment. He kept his gun in the entertainment hutch in his bedroom. It and two clips of ammunition were behind a false back to the cabinet of the hutch. Sark practically tore the cabinet doors off, clawing for the gun and clips.

            Calvin rushed in the room to see Sark load a bullet in the chamber, set the safety, and tuck the gun in the back of his pants.

            "What is it?"

            "Ilene," Sark said hurriedly. He grabbed his leather jacket to hide the gun. "Stay inside. Don't leave until you hear from me."

            "Should I kick my friends out?" Calvin asked, completely prepared to do so.

            "No," Sark said. "You're safer in numbers."

            He left the room and moved quickly for the front door.

            "Julian!"

            He turned back.

            "Lock up behind me. Call and check on Mom and Dad too." He slammed the door shut and ran down the stairs to his car.

            He checked the car hastily for bombs, and then floored it to Ilene's apartment. His eyes spent more time on the rearview than ahead of him.

            _Why now?_ Just when things were settling down . . . _Just when you're comfortable, idiot!_

            Nothing seemed out of place outside her apartment. Sark entered the building. Twenty-somethings went about, just laughing as they went on their normal activities for the evening. Sark couldn't hide the look on his face. It was cold, but anxious. Sark swore to himself that he'd make an example out of whoever was trying to threaten him now.

            The hallway was quiet. Sark removed his gun, flipping the safety off as he readied it.

            Sark tried the doorknob, slowly. It was locked. Sark stepped back, and after double-checking that the hallway was clear, he kicked the door as hard as he could.

            It flew open, sending splinters in the air. Sark rushed in, his gun raised and looking for danger he fully intended to eliminate.

            He froze, as did the two women in front of him. Ilene shot her brother a curious look, while the other tried to hold back a laugh.

            "Sydney," he said, obviously surprised. The gun dangled from his hand as tension started to seep from him. "What the hell is going on?"


	17. Missing You

a/n: thanks to sallene for her advice!

Missing You

            "Geez, Julian, put the gun away," Ilene scolded. "I thought you'd want to see Sydney."

            Sark sighed and tossed his gun on the kitchen counter. He spun around and shut the damaged front door. He started pacing back and forth, running his hands through his hair. He watched the two women, in particular Sydney, who looked . . . stunning.

            He stopped abruptly. "Sydney, don't misunderstand me—I'm glad you're here—but I may end up accidentally killing someone if I am summoned like this again." He shot a reproving glare at Ilene, who held up two hands.

            "I knew you'd want to talk," she said defensively.

            "Ever heard of using the blasted phone?!" Sark shot back. He shed his jacket and tossed it over the couch's back.

            "Oh, get over it. We've just been catching up, and here you barged in rudely on our conversation," Ilene said. Sark rolled his eyes. He pulled out his cell phone.

            "Fine. You can call Mom, Dad and Calvin and explain the false alarm," he said, tossing the phone to her.

            She caught it and left the room, but not without shooting a glare at her brother. Sark sighed heavily as he plopped down on the couch next to Sydney.

            "Well," she began, "I can see you've kept on your toes." Sark shot a look at her. His anger hadn't settled down, nor his relief, at both situations.

            Anger won out.

            "How could I relax?" he nearly spat out. "I haven't heard anything from you. I didn't know if the CIA's been appeased, or if your father sold my information to the highest bidder."

            Sydney held up a hand. "I know, but things have been—"

            "Busy? I hand-delivered the Retract files and eliminated Strachen, and we both know your mom is losing speed," Sark said. His chest was heaving from the emotions flowing through him. "Besides, I thought you had given up on us."

            That hit home. 

            Sydney stood and Sark couldn't help but notice how beautiful she really was. Her hair . . . the casual jeans and black sweater . . . and then her eyes.

            He felt her pain as he looked into them, and instantly felt like the lowest being on earth for yelling at her.

            "Sydney, I'm—I apologize, I shouldn't have gotten angry," he said quickly. He closed the distance between them, but stopped short, realizing he may have crossed a line. He reached out a hand to tuck her hair back, but she caught it mid-air.

            Sark stared at the action, then looked into her eyes. They were moist, and fierce.

            "Don't act like I haven't been in just as much agony," she said between clenched teeth. "I wasn't sure how this would work."

            "Does that mean I'm still on the CIA's list, or that you have had a change of heart?" He braced himself for the pain. But Sydney shook her head, and started her own pacing.

            "You're not on the CIA's list anymore," she said. Sark sat back down. "My dad told them about your visit."

            "And?"

            "Well, his exact words were that you were in his apartment, and that you were no longer a threat," she said. A shy smile started to form on her lips as Sark realized the meaning.

            "Everyone assumed that meant he killed me."

            Sydney laughed, but shook her head. "Not everyone bought it. A select few know you're alive, and they're fine with letting you go."

            "With some convincing on your part," Sark guessed. She nodded, holding her hand over her mouth to hold back a laugh.

            An awkward silence settled between them. Sark finally brought it up.

            "So have you had a change of heart then?" he said. His voice was low. He was trying to be nonchalant, strong, but Sydney always had a way around that.

            "I stayed away," she started, "because I'm . . . I don't know how we can make this work." Sark swallowed. "That doesn't mean I don't want it to work—I do—but how can our lives work together?"

            That silence settled over them like dust. Sark leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He cradled his head in his hands. 

            Her question resounded in his mind. "We could . . ." He started to speak but didn't know the answer. "I'll . . ." _What? Meet you at a hotel for secret getaways?_

_            What about here?_

            But he couldn't ask her to do that. Not to give up her father, her friends. _And I can't make do with sporadic visits._

            "Sydney," he said, looking up at her. "I don't have the answer. But I can't _not_ have you with me." 

            Sydney sat down by him.

            "Sark, you know I can't . . ." She let herself fall silent as Sark put a finger to her lips. His fingertip brushed her lips, stroking down. Their eyes followed it as he lowered his hand.

            "Don't," he said, whispering. "Don't say what will hurt us both." His eyes felt moist, which was foreign to him, but he wasn't ashamed. Sark, the emotional void, gave in.

            He leaned in. His lips brushed hers, and he felt a sigh escape her mouth. She met him the rest of the way.

            Her arms wrapped around his chest, and Sark held her tightly to him. He ran his tongue over her teeth, and adjusted his kiss. She was so warm, something he knew stemmed from the passion that fueled her, that made her _Sydney_.

            And there was no way he was going to let that passionate woman slip away.

            Sark pulled back, even placing his hands on her shoulders to give them a breather.

            "Sydney," he started, panting a bit, "will you have dinner with me?"

  
  
            Well, more than dinner was planned. It was a date, something that also sounded odd coming from him. Sydney even giggled when he formally asked her out. But she agreed, and crashed at Ilene's for the night.

            Sark went back to his apartment, and Calvin didn't miss the dreamy look on his brother's face.

            Sark picked Sydney up late the next morning.

            "It's an all-day date," Sark explained, eliciting another giggle from her.

            He took her to the sights.

            "When do you ever have time to sight-see on ops?" Sark asked somewhat rhetorically. 

            He took her to a movie. 

            "I thought a romantic comedy might be better," he said.

            "Better than what?" Sydney asked, sensing some cryptic answer.

            "Better than spy movies," he replied with a grin. "Trust me—they're disappointing."

            He took her to a carousel. 

            That might have treaded on something personal to her, but she assured him it was nothing. Sark nodded, and figured it must have been something from her childhood. They laughed like kids and attracted stares from envious people looking for someone to share life with.

            He moved on and took her to dinner.

            The venue of choice was a ranch. It was far from the city, far from everything. On the back of the ranch was a quaint little pond.

            And waiting on a perfectly checkered picnic blanket was a feast that put any country meal to shame.

            The sun started setting. Sydney stared at the orange and pink sky. Nothing interrupted her peace, not even the cork of the wine bottle popping and nearly killing a nearby duck.

            They ate in silence, munching on grapes, ham and croissants. Fine cheeses, fresh jams, and even warm soup.

            Sark gauged her reaction somewhat nervously. She kept looking at the sky, watching the sun as it set lower and lower. The expression on her face . . .

            _Is that a smile?_ Not that he was unfamiliar with it, but he took it as a good sign. Sark grinned to himself.

            "I don't know if you noticed, Sydney, but there's a little boat on that pond," Sark said, standing up. He brushed off stray crumbs from his jeans, and offered her a hand. She smiled, that tight, nervous smile that said she knew something was up.

            The boat was creaky and old, but Sark knew it was sea-worthy. He tested the boat early that morning. Even so, Sydney held out her arms to balance herself. She shot Sark a look.

            "Trust me," was all he had to say.

            They sailed to the middle of the pond, sitting closely to each other. Sark felt her snuggle closer to him. He smiled as a felicity came over him that he hadn't felt since . . .

            _Have I ever been this happy?_ He almost laughed and shook his head. _Irina__ was right about that. I can't be happy without Sydney_.

            Sark kissed the top of her head, and disentangled himself from her. She started to object, but he shot her a reassuring look.

            The sun was gone, and darkness fell quickly. Sark reached into his pocket and flicked on a lighter. With a proud glance at the woman of his life, he threw the lighter toward the shore of the small pond.

            Sark heard it hit the shore, and then the hissing whoosh of a chain reaction. The flame connected with the trail of torches he placed around the pond, and in just a few seconds, the water was surrounded by the glow of contained fire.

            Sydney gasped. The surprise turned to awe, and she just stared at how beautiful everything had become in the night.

            Quite pleased with himself, Sark sat down on the boat's wide bench. He straddled it, and leaned back, pulling Sydney to him. He whispered to her ear.

            "I don't know about you, but I'll do anything to make this work."

            Sydney laughed and kissed him. Her eyes teared up and she kissed him again. Two, three, four pecks, each time with a wider smile that grew on both their lips.

            Finally Sydney pulled back, and her face and eyes were still bright.

            "Okay."

            That's all Sark needed to hear.

The End

(for now—look for a follow-up from Syd's POV)


End file.
